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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26352043">A Little of the Old Ultraviolence</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrankFontaine1959/pseuds/FrankFontaine1959'>FrankFontaine1959</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>We Happy Few (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/F, F/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-05-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 04:54:09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>50,639</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26352043</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrankFontaine1959/pseuds/FrankFontaine1959</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Oasis, a German pharmaceutical company, manufacturers the most addictive drug in the world: Joy. They've just opened shop in Manhattan. Arthur Hastings is a corporate hitman tasked with rooting out a whistleblower. Sally Boyle works in marketing, furthering the company's efforts to enthrall the American populous. Ollie Starkey is an executive producer on 'You Don't Know Jack', Oasis' bold new media endeavor. They start their respective journeys with a game of Three Card Monte. While at the end, a remote cemetery in the Mojave desert holds a shallow grave for each. Just how will they arrive there? Join me, dear reader, in a bit of the old ultraviolence and find out.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Arthur Hastings (We Happy Few)/Original Character(s), Sally Boyle/Original Female Character</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Find the Lady</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Our journey begins.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Dear Reader, </p><p>The labyrinth I have spun for you takes off in three directions. The first— Send in the Clowns —follows Arthur Hastings; corporate hitman esquire. The second— Joy to the World — stars Sally Boyle; head of regional marketing. Oliver ‘Ollie’ Starkey, outsourced PR yes-man, takes center stage in the third— End of our Time . As their paths diverge and intertwine, the roads that they travel will all inevitably lead to one place: the heart of the maze. Though, instead of a minotaur, what our protagonists encounter will be a spot of the old ultraviolence. Sunshine and easter eggs await, my brothers and sisters, I’ll come back to check in on you next time. </p><p>Yours Truly, </p><p>Frank</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u"><b>January 5, 9:06 AM</b> </span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Arthur Hastings entered The Hippo Club shortly after nine in the morning. A heavy snowfall blanketed Manhattan. He passed by Buschwick. She was perched behind the bar cleaning an empty bottle of cider; leftover from the night before no doubt. Her caramel-colored skin reflected in the shining glass. Buschwick glared at Arthur like she had no idea who he was, or, perhaps more appropriately, like she wished she didn’t. The tears tattooed along the side of her left cheek looked darker under the dim red light currently incasing the inside of the club.</p><p>There was a mild commotion outside that Arthur craned his neck around briefly to examine. The stir didn't make its way inside, though, so he continued walking. He made his way into the back and passed down the hall of dressing rooms until he reached the door with the name <em>Eddie Murphy </em>scratched out. Arthur stepped inside and locked the door. He looked around the empty room, save one chair in front of one lit up vanity, then unlocked it. Arthur peered out into the hall and took a gaze down either side. He waited for what he knew would happen to him. However, to Arthur’s surprise, the certainty of his fate proved tardy.</p><p>He reentered the dressing room formerly belonging to the <em>Delirious </em>performer and took a seat at the sole luminous vanity. Arthur removed two jars of face paint: one pasty white and one dark green. He began to apply the white to his face. Gently brushing with his index and middle finger under his eyelids and along his upper lip. Arthur felt a draft seep in from the window on the opposite side of the room but couldn’t bring himself to rise and open it.</p><p>As Arthur went to smear the green paint over his lips, he began to cry. The tears rolled down his cheeks and a ball formed in his throat wider than a catfish that rendered his sobs inaudible. Arthur lost all the sensation in his fingers, even as they continued to mark up his face.</p><p>“<em>The Sad Clown</em>…”</p><p>Arthur looked up to see Buschwick standing in the doorway. Her cornrows flooded over her shoulders.</p><p>“… that’s what you are, Arthur.”</p><p>In the dusty corner of the room nearest the open window was an empty orange bottle of Blackberry flavored Joy; cobwebs had begun to form around it. There were only two pills left inside.</p><p>Buschwick approached Arthur’s vanity and laid down three plastic, red cups. Under one she placed a crumpled up Jack of Clubs from an Ancient Egyptian themed deck of cards.</p><p>“Know how this works, right?”</p><p>Arthur nodded.</p><p>“Good.” Buschwick shuffled the cups five times.</p><p>Arthur watched the cups closely, and when the proprietor was done, he picked the cup on the left.</p><p>There was no card. “Best two out of three?”</p><p>Arthur swallowed painfully. “The card’s not there.”</p><p>“Ah… don’t be like that. Best two out of three.” Buschwick shuffled the cups seven times.</p><p>Arthur watched her eyes intently, then choose the middle cup. The crumpled eye of the Jack stared back at him. He could hear footsteps from down the hall.</p><p>“See?” Buschwick smiled and began rapidly sliding the cups around.</p><p>“<em>A dab a day</em>…” Arthur recoiled at the smell of himself. He was no longer paying attention to Buschwick and her game. She thought he would try to run or fight, but Arthur wouldn’t have come to The Hippo Club if he had the endurance to do either. “… <em>keeps the Doctor away</em>.”</p><p>The doorknob turned ever so slowly as Buschwick rendered the cups motionless.</p><p>Arthur, without averting his gaze from the door, smacked the middle cup away and took the card. He unfolded it and saw the King of Diamonds staring back at him.</p><p>“Sorry, sport,” said Buschwick, “but it’s for your own good.”</p><p>Thirteen Joy Doctors, with their black trench coats and slick mustaches, calmly filed into the dressing room. Their lumbering frames and plastered grins nearly blotted out everything else in the room. Green hats with yellow bands sat atop their heads; black gloves gripped industrial saw blades.</p><p>Arthur looked to Buschwick. She slipped the Jack of Clubs back under her sleeve. “Give my regards to Katz, <em>when you land</em>.”</p><p>A Doctor with a red hat and red wellingtons stepped forward and placed a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “It’s unhealthy to go off your medication, Mr. Hastings.” He held a bottle of Blackberry Joy in his hand. It was filled with smiling, bright purple pills. They called to Arthur like an orchestra at the very bottom of the sea. “How will you take them?”</p><p>Arthur snorted and swatted the bottle away. “Fuck you Harold.”</p><p>The eyes behind the sinister grin of the Joy Doctors went wide. “<em>As you like it</em>,” they all said in unison.</p><p>The Doctors rushed Arthur and held him down. They restrained his arms behind his head and stretched out his legs to control the thrashing. His mouth was pried open by several pairs of hands.</p><p>Harold Ridgewell, Director of Health and Wellness, picked three pills from up off the floor and dusted them off. “<em>Cum surgere</em>,” he said, dropping the Blackberry Joy into Arthur’s mouth.</p><p> </p><p>
  <span class="u"> <b>January 5, 7:55 AM</b> </span>
</p><p> </p><p>Sally Boyle woke up with a glowing, ear to ear smile. The low hanging early morning sun quietly slipped into her room. She was warmed from the tips of her toes to her plump, rosy cheeks. Everything in her apartment was in its right place; every record tucked away in a sleeve, every sock snuggled comfortably away in a draw—color-coded of course. It was another day in The Big Apple so perfect Sally was sure artists around the city were flocking to their windows, cameras and canvases in tow, so as to capture the daybreak in all its natural purity.</p><p>Sally felt rapturous as she folded up the sheets on her bed and fluffed up her pillows. She removed her clothes and stepped into the shower, letting the serene water flow over her and freshen her body for another day in Oasis. Sally decided to walk to work and picked up a small latte on the way from one of the nice Indian vendors on the corner. She took the scenic route through Palisades Park.</p><p>Young children were out and running about, throwing kites into the air and gleefully blowing bubbles. Dogs scampered through the bushes chasing tennis balls and frisbees. A double rainbow shot out of the lake and wrapped around the apple trees. Two large groups of people were embracing on the other side of the park, their arms out wide as the sunflowers and daffodils bloomed around them. A young boy dropped his football and Sally bent down and threw it back to him.</p><p>Before she left the park Sally noticed a small table with three red cups on it. A sign read that a special prize awaited whoever could guess correctly where the ping pong ball was. Sally stepped up and watched as the little boy behind the table shuffled the cups. She choose the one in the middle. The boy looked nervous as he lifted the cup and revealed nothing but empty air. He wished her better luck next time and motioned to the next player.</p><p>Oasis’ Manhattan Headquarters was a forty eight floor building, not including the basement or the sub-levels Sally’s keycard didn’t grant her access to. The lobby was all glass windows, with four large obsidian columns inside that stretched up to the ceiling. There was a fountain in the center with rainbow colored trout stacked up, pouring crystal clear blue water from their mouths.</p><p>Sally waved and gave a <em>‘How do you do?’ </em>to Leon, Head of Security, who was sitting down behind the front desk with a couple of his rowdy mates. They were engaged in raucous banter and heinous, knee-slapping laughter.</p><p>She took the elevator up to the tenth floor; the music inside a mesmerizing cello recital. Sally removed the congratulatory red tape over the door to her office and sat down at her desk. </p><p>Sally didn't remember a thing. She really didn’t. That’s what she told the Bobbies that rushed through the marketing offices and burst into her room, batons pointed at her. Sally maintained that she didn't know what the fuss was about. Then the Bobbies dragged her from the room. She was thrown into a stark, pitch white room and forced down into a cold, metal chair. Sally was handcuffed to the table and left alone.</p><p>Loud, vexed voices battered each other back and forth outside until finally a Bobby drove his way inside, slammed the door shut behind him, and locked it. There was a vigorous banging on the other side but the Bobby, whose uniform was darker than the others—a pitch black—ignored it and wiped some dirt off his shoulders.</p><p>He sat down opposite Sally, the twisted sneer on his face mask stained with a multitude of colors.</p><p>“You came back,” said the Bobby, “we didn’t expect you to come back.”</p><p>“I work here,” said Sally.</p><p>“<em>Yes</em>… yes, you do. Tell me, where is Arthur Hastings?”</p><p>“Oh… little Artie? Haven’t seen him. I know he does comedy sets, though, down at that club… you know the one?”</p><p>“Know which one? Klub Katz?”</p><p>“No, no, no… the <em>other </em>one.”</p><p>“The… Hippo Club? Schwick’s place?”</p><p>“Yes! Yes, that’s the one.”</p><p>“That’s fantastic news, Sally. Now, I just need you to answer one more question for me: what did he give you?”</p><p>“Who? Artie?”</p><p>“Yes… <em>Artie</em>. He gave you something. What was it?”</p><p>“I don’t know. Same as I told the other Bobbies.”</p><p>“Do you know how you got here this morning?”</p><p>“Yes, I walked.”</p><p>“Do you know where you slept last night?”</p><p>“My apartment…”</p><p>“You have no recollection of being in the basement? With the weird crew down there?”</p><p>“No… why on earth would I go down there?”</p><p>“Because you were looking for something. Something they promised you in exchange for a favor. Only you didn't completely follow through on your end. You were with Arthur. He gave you a pill… right? It was Oblivion, wasn’t it?”</p><p>“O… <em>Oblivion</em>?”</p><p>“Goddamnit!” The Bobby slammed his fists down on the table and the room shook. “That batch wasn't ready for distribution yet! Can’t you tell it fucked you up in the head woman! Only not enough for you to be of any further use to us!” The Bobby lunged across the table and slammed Sally’s head into the table. She collapsed on the floor, blood streaming down from her nose, gashes along her wrists where the handcuffs lashed against her skin.</p><p>There came a knock at the door. In Sally’s fleeting moments of consciousness, she saw the Bobby make way for Joy Doctors to enter and remove her restraints. Two smiling, pink pills were placed in her mouth and she was thrown over one of the Doctors shoulders.</p><p>“<em>Hastings is at the Hippo,</em>” said the Bobby.</p><p>“We’ll round him up,” said one of the Doctors, “you stay here and wait for Starkey. He should be getting out of a meeting with Management any minute now.”</p><p>“Where do I bring him?”</p><p>“Tarmac one. We leave at exactly eleven o’ clock. Be there with Ollie, or I’ll make sure Management brings an extra shovel.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <span class="u"> <b>January 5, 6:45 AM</b> </span>
</p><p> </p><p>Ollie Starkey needed a gin and tonic—<em>hold the tonic and toss it into the Atlantic</em>—more than ever before in his entire life. Given he awoke in an alley behind a boarded-up video rental store, up one blistering headache and down two shoes, Ollie imagined the whole damn bottle of gin wouldn’t cut it. Especially as he looked down at his tattered suit and noticed the blood splatter.</p><p>“<em>Screwdriver?</em>” Ollie looked around and found a rat tearing through a yellow apple. “I’m thinkin’ a screwdriver… <em>yeah</em>…” He tried to stand but found that his head tilted the world too violently when he did, so Ollie resulted to a brisk crawl out of the alley and onto the street.</p><p>There were rising smoke clouds in the distance coming from Oasis. In the middle of West 40th street was a burning bus. Blaring sirens rang out in the distance, but were largely overtaken by the hail of gunfire somewhere around Central Park. Ollie steadily climbed to his feet and rested against a mailbox. A poster for <em>‘You Don’t Know Jack’</em> was on the side of the torched bus. The sight of <em>‘Uncle’</em> Jack’s repulsively chipper smile was enough to make Ollie’s stomach relieve itself of every meal he’d eaten in the past month.</p><p>Ollie shambled down West 40th street. As he neared Central Park, through his strained and blurry vision, he saw Sally Boyle in the distance. She was stumbling, in a similar fashion to himself, out of <em>Clarks Nightcaps</em>—a fairy bar where they only served wine—wearing an ill-fitting red dress. She had no shoes. Ollie tried to call to her, but his voice didn’t carry far enough to reach her.</p><p>He followed her through Central Park. Sally was completely oblivious to the standoff between riot control officers—armed with bulletproof shields and fully automatic shotguns—and protestors wearing owl masks. Molotovs and tear gas canisters flew in the early morning breeze, which was stained with the smell of a burning carousel and the countless bodies bobbing in the Conservatory Water. Sally looked on with a deranged smile the likes of which Ollie had never seen on a human being before. When a tear gas canister fell in her path, he watched as Sally gleefully picked it up and tossed it at a young child that had been spectating the action from afar.</p><p>The protestors meant to march on Oasis, or so the signs they held led Ollie to believe. The few who broke through the police line didn’t get far, however. He took his eyes off Sally to note the Bobbies in white uniforms, outfitted with gas masks and purple headlights, carting bodies away. When Ollie shifted back to Sally, he saw a couple of kids making off with her jewelry as she fiddled around with cups on a table.</p><p>“HEY!” Ollie stumbled forward with his fists outstretched. “FUCK OFF YOU LITTLR BLIGHTERS!”</p><p>The kids ran off, but Sally had moved on.</p><p>Five rows of riot barricades were erected in front of the Oasis Headquarters building. Shattered glass and bullet casings littered the ground. The front windows into the lobby were shattered. Joy Doctors were in the middle of beheading several unmasked protestors. As Sally stumbled through, the security guards screamed at her and tried to stop her, but she smiled in return and proceeded to board the elevator. There was a Bobby in the stairwell relentlessly pummeling a protestor’s head in with his truncheon. His uniform and face mask was caked in blood.</p><p>“<em>Good day, brother</em>,” said the Bobby as Ollie passed by.</p><p>On the thirteenth floor there was a warning being broadcast through the overhead speakers: <em>“Oasis Management is not responsible for any on-site accidents. Oasis Management is not responsible for any on-site accidents…”</em></p><p>Ollie entered conference room 01 and took a seat. He hadn’t realized his socks had tore and his feet were trailing blood behind him.</p><p>“Mr. Starkey?”</p><p>Ollie looked up to see the Public Relations Committee, with their plastered on white faces and polka-dot themed bowties, glaring at him.</p><p>“<em>Yeah</em>…”</p><p>“What happened to Jack?”</p><p>“He hung himself from the beanstalk.”</p><p>“We can’t seem to… <em>find him</em>.”</p><p>Ollie scratched his neck. “<em>Figured as much…”</em></p><p>“WHAT DID YOU SAY?”</p><p>“Um…” Ollie cleared his throat “… I’m sure he’ll turn up.”</p><p>From the darkness behind where the Public Relations committee sat, with their hands folded neatly together, emerged half a dozen Bobbies.</p><p>“What’s all this then?”</p><p>“You signed a contract, Mr. Starkey.”</p><p>“Bollocks to it! What happened with Jack isn’t on me.”</p><p>“What <em>did </em>happen to Jack?” Said a Bobby, inching his way around the circular table that divided the conference room.</p><p>“I want to speak with my lawyer,” said Ollie, sweat dripping from his brow.</p><p>“<em>The Irishman</em>? He can’t talk you out of this one, I’m afraid.”</p><p>Ollie made a dash for the door but the Bobbies tackled him and dragged him back into the room. They forced him onto the table. The Public Relations committee had displayed three red cups in front of them.</p><p>“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!” Ollie wailed.</p><p>“<em>Oliver</em>…” the head of a novelty Uncle Jack bobblehead was placed under the middle cup. “… <em>find Jack</em>.”</p><p>The cups were shuffled. Ollie continued to struggle against the strength of the Bobbies. “OH FUCK YOU! Fuck every last goddamn one of you slimy rats!”</p><p>One of the Bobbies removed a hammer and struck Ollie’s right hand. The cups were shuffled again.</p><p>Ollie looked the Bobby firmly in his eyes as he readied the hammer. “Game’s over, <em>chap</em>. I’ll see you all in hell.”</p><p>As the pain descended on Ollie’s left hand, the middle cup was removed and the wobbly head of Uncle Jack rolled off the table. Three brown pills were forced into Ollie’s mouth and the Bobbies carried him out of the room.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Latin Translation for Harold: "When you wake up"</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Under My Skin</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Arthur starts off his day at Oasis. Features an interlude with one of Arthur's sets at The Hippo Club.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Dear Reader, </p>
<p>Arthur’s story begins in proper now. Sally and Ollie will have their moment in the spotlight all in due time. It’s a long way to go before that fateful morning in The Hippo Club. I’ll be back when we shift into Sally’s shoes. Until then, enjoy the ultraviolence.</p>
<p>Yours Truly,</p>
<p>Frank</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u">
    <b>Send in the Clowns</b>
  </span>
  <b>
    
  </b>
  <b>(Arthur)</b>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span class="u">
    <b>December 14th</b>
  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Arthur Hastings took his coffee black and walked across the street to the Oasis Headquarters. There was a mild chill in the air that stirred the hairs on the nape of his neck. He lifted his face mask up and sipped the dark roast; no matter how gentle he was, Arthur always burned his tongue. As he walked around the side of the headquarters, people swerved out of his way like he was on fire. The people of New York weren’t used to seeing Bobbies walking up and down their streets. At least, not yet.</p>
<p>Oasis had sent out literature on the phases planned for the adjustment period, but Arthur hadn’t gotten around to flipping through it. He expected, no matter how firm the company line was, that the denizens of Manhattan would never truly take to men in British police uniforms—complete with sharp black helmets and pristine white gloves—anymore than they would a giant elephant dressed up like Ziggy Stardust.</p>
<p>Dark grey clouds blanketed the sky overhead and reflected a coming storm in the windows of skyscrapers. Arthur descended into the headquarters parking garage just as a black limousine was exiting. His truncheon swayed at his side as he walked through the rows of identical G-Class Mercedes-Benz SUV’s. All freshly polished and black, with windows tinted so dark Arthur couldn’t imagine how anyone could see out, let alone in.</p>
<p>There was a murder of Bobbie’s in red uniforms taking a smoke break in the northwest corner of the garage. They were slipping each other packs of <em>Brannigans</em>: a cheap import that kinda tasted like their more expensive counterpart, <em>Blue Ribbon</em>, after the fiftieth drag. The <em>Brannigans </em>design was of a silverback gorilla, in a Hawaiian shirt with a pair of sunglasses, cheerfully lighting up. </p>
<p>The red Bobbies nodded and grunted as Arthur passed. He didn't smoke, so they’d stopped offering. Arthur buzzed the service elevator and waited, trying to inhale as little of the smoke as possible. He listened as the Bobbies rhythmically tapped their black dress shoes against the asphalt to make a tune similar to Kurt Cobain’s <em>Something In The Way</em>, with one occasionally humming to keep it going.</p>
<p>When the elevator arrived, three Joy Doctors stepped off. They tipped their green hats with the green bands and continued on their way. The Doctors drove around in windowless black vans with no license plates. When they left Oasis so early in the day, Arthur knew the Doctors were going to round people up. Arthur knew because, on more than one occasion, he’d been the one to hand off the list of names to them. It wasn't his responsibility to, but neither was asking questions or saying <em>no</em>.</p>
<p>As Arthur rode the service elevator down to the eighth floor below the headquarters, that didn't show up on any building schematic and therefore didn’t exist, he adjusted his belt and the German Imperial Eagle that served as his buckle. It was a Monday, and the week was just beginning. Arthur had to remind himself because the days had started to blur together a little bit. There was an itch in the back of his head that needed to be scratched, so when he stepped out of the elevator Arthur popped a Blackberry Joy.</p>
<p>The little smiling purple lads that made the word <em>Furnace </em>look funny were prescription only. Only Bobbies were allowed to taste Blackberry, which rolled down the tongue like a blueberry dipped in fish oil. There had been a few times when the customers, or as Oasis referred to them <em>‘Wellies’</em>, would try to take Blackberry Joy from behind the counter of a company brand pharmacy or off of a Bobby directly. The incidents, regardless of where and how they started, all ended in a similar fashion: a broken arm and a situational report to Upper Management.</p>
<p>Arthur took hold of a heated door handle and walked inside the Oasis furnace room. It was a dry hear that rushed Arthur like a horde of stampeding Wildebeest. The flames burned all day and night; the evening crew could be there from nine at night till four or five in the morning. Five metal stretchers held five mangled bodies. Two men and three women. One was cut up from a Doctors saw, two had all black veins and no eyes, and two had giant holes in their chests. Arthur looked up and saw a man in a crimson, rubber rain coat wielding a slab of cement on the end of a steel pole.</p>
<p>“You gettin’ off Benny?”</p>
<p>“<em>Yeah</em>.”</p>
<p>Benny lumbered by, his exhausted six foot seven frame leaving sweaty footprints in its wake.</p>
<p>Arthur began humming to himself as he carted each body over to the incinerator. He tilted their stretchers up and the corpses slid off and onto the scorching iron bars that their ashes would soon slip through. Management said that it took eight to ten minutes, with the heat turned all the way up, to completely reduce the body to ash. Arthur tended to lean on the side of caution and go twelve. He sat on the floor of the furnace room for an hour with his face mask off. He concentrated on his breathing. He waited for his coffee to become cold and tasteless before drinking it.</p>
<p>“<em>I’ve got you under my skin</em>…” Arthur began to sing quietly to himself. “<em>I’ve got you deep in the heart of me. So deep in my heart that you’re really a part of me. I’ve got you under my skin. I’d tried so not to give in. I said to myself: this affair never will go so well…</em>”</p>
<p>Arthur briefly passed out. The immediate, searing pain as his face connected with the floor jolted him up. He turned off the furnace and moved the stretchers out into the hall. Arthur rode the service elevator back up to the parking garage. Save for the SUV’s, the first level was empty. Back on the street, it had begun to snow. It wasn't the sticky kind that would close schools or stop up traffic for hours on end. It was just enough of a flurry to make people drive a mile an hour, though, and get the roads covered in an inch of salt.</p>
<p>Arthur stood on the sidewalk and let the meek flakes collide with his skin and instantly melt. They ran down his cheeks and to passersby it must have looked like he was crying. Arthur slid his face mask back on; a contorted smirk greeted the rest of the world for him. He walked back around and entered Oasis Headquarters properly, through the lobby. He passed Leon—Head of Security—along the way.</p>
<p>“We getting any visitors today?”</p>
<p>“<em>Ja</em>,” said Leon, “our owl friends never disappoint us. Do they boys?” The rest of lobby security grunted disinterestedly.</p>
<p>Arthur boarded the lobby elevator just as a couple of suits—the nice, neat, and black kind—got off. He pressed the number <em>20</em>, and the doors closed him in.</p>
<p>“<em>We at Oasis welcome YOU!</em>” The prerecorded elevator recording went off. “<em>To another day at the company store.</em>”</p>
<p>Arthur sighed and popped another Joy.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span class="u">
    <b>Set 1 Interlude:</b>
    <b> The Tiny Elephant</b>
  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>In The Hippo Club, Arthur Hastings stood alone on stage. His face was caked in white and green makeup to give him the appearance of a jolly court jester. The club wasn't open for business yet. As the hostess ordered the waiters to set the tables, stock up the bar, and double check the overhead lights, Buschwick sat in a third row booth. Square in the middle, she was Arthur’s sole patron. He took out a black notepad and cleared his throat.</p>
<p>“This is for the record, in case I forget. I don’t even know what day it is. I’ve been in this city for nearly five years and it’s still alien to me. Though I suppose that’s part of its charm. Simple things like the day of the week, month… they don’t seem to matter that much. It’s a big place, almost designed like a casino. The intent being to get you so turned around and confused that you lose all sense and spend all your money in a novelty gift shop.</p>
<p>The first year or two it damn near took me an hour to get home. All it really took was walking two blocks and making a right, but the disorientation hits you on two fronts. First it’s the bright lights, then the loud noises on every street corner that make it hard to tell if all the people screaming <em>“Hey’ </em>and <em>‘You’</em> are actually speaking to you, or one of the seventy billion other people on the island.</p>
<p>The layout of a casino is what makes the most sense to me. Complete with the harlequin themed waitresses wandering the streets offering vodka tonics. They always overdue it on the makeup, which I suppose is where I take my inspiration from. Only unlike them, my ass crack isn’t hanging out in all the wrong places for passersby to gawk at and drool over.</p>
<p>I saw a familiar tattoo the other day, Schwick. You’re gonna love this one. I know it’s odd to recognize, sure, cause most of the time your eyes get so jaded after seeing umpteenth flaming skulls and sharks riding disproportionately sized motorcycles that the sight of black ink on the skin gets immediately discarded. Usually in favor of someone’s eyelid piercing or the fact that they’ve cut their hair into the shape of a swastika.</p>
<p>But this one—now, this one I remembered. First time I saw it, was when it was being drawn on. A tiny elephant in a snow globe. The elephant is normal, apart from being tiny and covered in snow. Still grey, not orange. The powder is up past what I assume is his calf, it’s kinda hard to tell without leaning too far in. The globe itself is nothin’ fancy—just round glass. You can’t make out the water, but the snowflakes are arranged in such a fashion so as to appear floating.</p>
<p>I mean I got this image imprinted on my frontal lobe. I’ve never actually glimpsed a snow globe that even closely resembled the tattoo. Not at a zoo. Not at a ski lodge. Not anywhere in America, Transylvania, Japan, or a small fishing village in Iceland. Come to think of it… I can’t even remember the name of the place, or if it even <em>was</em> in Iceland. Maybe Greece or Italy— I don’t know. All that springs to memory is the copious amount of mangy looking dogs and nice women with blonde hair that I’m positive had never been washed a day in its life with anything other than salt water and a hard, wooden brush.</p>
<p>I was staying in this little hut and the woman next door to me didn’t speak a word of English. My guy from the Fishery set me up there, though, so I assume she was a plant of some description. Her breasts were covered in freckles, almost to the point of being unable to see skin. Her nipples were a bright contrast—a light pink. How do I know all of this, Schwick? You want to know? <em>I</em> can tell.</p>
<p>One morning, I’d just gotten out of the bath and this Scandinavian viking woman misinterpreted my pleas for a silent smoke and above average cell reception for a lustful desire to strip her down and ravish her on the floor. I’ll admit I was tempted, but after her underwear came off and I saw the entire amazon rainforest eyeing me back I bolted from the hut. I swear there must have been at least three indigenous tribes in there performing human sacrifices. And no more than five pyramids filled with spike traps and snakes. Without a guide, two flamethrowers, and a tactical carpet bombing—or ten—I had no hope of getting off before nightfall.</p>
<p>I realized about a mile into the woods that I had no idea where I was and that my feet were cut to hell. I was on the coast and waded into the water. I rubbed one out into the ocean thinking about how much fun it would be to tie Sharon Molloy up by her ankles and stick it in her eye socket. She had a lazy eye and it drove me to cave Richie-something-or-others head in with a ventriloquist dummy. It was made of damn thick wood—maybe oak.</p>
<p><em>Fuck</em>. That’s not funny, is it? I went off script there. Well, not really, it <em>was </em>in the book. Just something I’d written down to get off my chest. Maybe a bit crude, sure. Too crude for this crowd. Not bad for you, though, huh Schwick? The tattoo… always puts a smile on my face.</p>
<p>Reminds of this girl I used to know. Name was Zoë. She always had these two little dots on top of the ‘e’ in her name. Never knew why. Never asked. Always wanted to but I thought it would be rude. She had a last name, but didn’t like it. Said it wasn’t reflective of who she wanted to be. I felt in that moment like I had the right to ask her what she meant by that.</p>
<p>Zoë tore several pages out of the book she was reading—something the size and weight of a brick, with a green cover—and then threw what remained off the side of an old, dilapidated brewery and onto a set of train tracks. The pages in her hand she then crumpled up and stuffed in her pocket.</p>
<p>Zoë said she wanted to be greedy. She wanted to be a giant, purple dragon that lived deep beneath a set of tall mountains, surrounded by a sea of gold and jewels. She never wanted to see a speck of dirt or something that wasn’t shiny. Even herself. So the gold and jewels would need to cover her entire dragon body. She said that the wealth she desired should be impossible to imagine, and improbable to quantify. Zoë didn’t want to know how much she had, only that her horde of goods was absolute. Then she laughed. Like a hyena. She snorted. Teared up a little. She couldn’t stop herself from reveling in her own performance.</p>
<p>She then introduced herself to me as though we’d never met. Zoë Avarice, Despot of Gold, Gods, and something else that started with the letter ‘G’, but she was too inebriated to speak clearly. Zoë Avarice had a tattoo of a tiny, grey elephant in a snow globe tattooed on her left breast, over her heart.”</p>
<p>Arthur stopped. Buschwick lips parted into a barely noticeable grin. She lifted up her shirt and looked down, admiring the tiny elephant in the snow globe.</p>
<p>“What’d you use to call <em>me</em>, Lady Avarice?”</p>
<p>Buschwick rose from her seat and walked up to the stage. “<em>Mr. Monster</em>.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. A Delicious Smile</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Arthur takes a break with some of his fellow Oasis employees.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><b> <span class="u">Send in the Clowns</span>  </b> <b>(Arthur)</b></p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span class="u"> <b>December 14</b> </span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The clock ticked ever closer to lunch break: one o’clock sharp. The interior of Oasis Regional Headquarters was brimming with busy bees. Arthur didn’t officially have a desk. He wasn't supposed to ever be sitting down. He too, per the company line, should be a busy bee, and thus find a skull or two to crack open before lunch just like the rest of the Bobbies. There was always <em>something </em>to be done. After all, the company store never closed. The red, neon sign in the window said <em>24/7</em>. Oasis was always open for business. Joy production never so much as stopped in someone’s mind.</p><p>Arthur found himself breaking a few company protocols by taking a break in the cubicles with the sales reps. A buffering computer screen was reflected in his eyes with the Oasis logo: a pristine watering hole surrounded by a slim rim of sand, and a lone palm tree hanging over from the right with a tiny grey owl perched on it. Over the sound of at least thirty people talking, both to each other and on the phone, one voice was crisp and distinct.</p><p>“Wouldn’t it be great if you could kill Anton and get away with it?”</p><p>Arthur looked over at Jeffery Castion, Vice President of Mergers and Acquisitions, as he leaned over the desk with an ear to ear grin. There was a wad of gum five pieces strong lodged in the corner of his mouth.</p><p>Arthur shrugged his shoulders and went back to fiddling with the mouse in an attempt to get the computer to load faster.</p><p>Jeffery, however, was seemingly displeased at the reaction he got as a scowl formed on his face. “I mean, just imagine it for a second. We’re there in his fancy apartment, drinking his eight thousand dollar champagne, and then all of a sudden—BAM! Someone just blasts his brains out all over the chic, white carpet. I…” He pretended to hold back a thunderous roar of laughter “… I don’t know about you, but I’d find that pretty goddamn funny.”</p><p>Arthur continued to ignore Jeffery, and instead became distracted by the interview Riley Anders—Inside Sales Representative of the Year two years in a row at only twenty six—was giving a few desks over.</p><p>“The company that you work for,” the reporter’s name was Annabelle according to her laminated visitors badge, “Oasis, recently supplied a town of less than four hundred people a supply of Joy in the amount of approximately thirty million pills. That is roughly seventy five thousand pills per person. Mr. Anders, as such a prominent sales representative, how do you—” As Annabelle, with sweaty palms, went to reposition the tape recorder on her lap, Riley leaned forward and clasped his hands together.</p><p>“All I have to say, <em>for the record</em>, is that is absolutely goddamn right.”</p><p>Annabelle, taken aback by the matter-of-factness of the response, seemed unsure of what to do. She rifled through her notes. “Well… Mr. Anders… What do you have to say to the accusations that some of the towns you supply, Hope County Montana for instance, don’t actually exist?”</p><p>“I’d say you’re just not looking hard enough. I can assure you it’s a real place. Been there myself. I can give you the name of a local preacher, name of John—”</p><p>“That won’t be necessary. What about the… what do you call them? Bobbies?” She stole a glance at Arthur. “Why do your pharmacies need their own private security?”</p><p>“Because the product we make is very expensive. Joy, after all, doesn’t exactly grow on tress. Last time <em>I </em>checked anyhow.” Annabelle went to juggle more notes when Riley pulled himself closer to her. “Anna, I really don’t read… what newspaper are you from? The Globe? I don’t much care for it, but, I must say that you have a delicious smile.”</p><p>Annabelle attempted to compose herself. “In that town, I believe it was somewhere in Ohio, sixty people have died due to Joy-related overdoses.”</p><p>“I know…” Riley put his hands in her lap and shut off the recorder “… but who honestly cares about some fucking hillbillies out in the middle of shit-fuck Ohio? Really? So what a few less people cook meth and skull-fuck their sisters? Big deal. What about us Anna? What about us?”</p><p>Annabelle stood to leave. “I think we’re done here Mr. Anders. And I work for The Times.”</p><p>“<em>Oh god</em>… you know what, I can make it work baby! We can make it work, I’ll just need a brown paper bag is all. Come on, don’t leave me like that. How about I buy you a nice steak dinner? On the company. On the fancy black card.”</p><p>Annabelle huffed out of the cubicles and disappeared amidst the shuffle of the twentieth floor. Riley rolled his chair out into the middle of the throng of spectators—a sea of grinning, silicon white faces—that had been steadily gathering and burst out laughing. Soon the heinous jeering echoed throughout the whole office. Until, that was, a few Joy Doctors paraded their way through. With venomous glares, they not too subtly reminded everyone to get back to work.</p><p>The crowd dispersed. The office returned to a steady hum filled with the <em>click click</em> of calculators and an orchestra of ringtones. Jeffery remained huddled, as did Jason, Chris, Byron, and Dean.</p><p>Jason Lang was a fresh face around the office. He was a sales assistant, but came highly recommended from the Berlin hub. When the Manhattan Headquarters had first opened, Oasis strived to find as many wide-eyed new recruits as possible to fill out the ranks. People that knew the city and its people; who were familiar enough to be approachable. Though, even in an entry-level position, Oasis still found that flying in a few masters of the craft could be invaluable.</p><p>Chris Jacoby was a sales engineer, and routinely placed in the upper bracket when it came time to divvy up quarter quotas. The <em>seventy five thousand pills per person</em> ratio was a stroke from his collective genius. He knew the way a small town doctors office was run. How many patients they took in and how many prescriptions they wrote. Pumping Joy through the midwest, a task once thought nigh impossible, proved mere child’s play to <em>Jacoby M.D.</em>; a moniker bestowed upon him by the sales department and one he wore with pride.</p><p>Byron Saul and Dean Ode were both associates in Mergers and Acquisitions and shadowed Jeffery wherever he went. They picked up the garage he would nonchalantly toss over his shoulder and jot down his early morning as well as late evening ramblings. Mergers and Acquisitions underling role at Oasis was to show up late to board meetings and stand in the corner looking grim and serious. Or at least, that’s all Arthur ever saw them do.</p><p>After the Joy Doctors had faded from view, Riley began to snicker again. Jeffery and the rest joined in. Arthur opened the drawer of the desk he was sitting in and found a pair of chattering teeth. He smiled to himself, but was perceived to be laughing along with the others.</p><p>“Keep trying Riley, maybe one of these days you’ll get as lucky as Fred. I think he’s in the bathroom with that redhead from the Gazette,” said Jeffery.</p><p>Byron came up behind Riley and playfully put him in a chokehold. “I don’t know about that fellas… I think out boy here is content to live the rest of his life sleeping next to a cardboard cutout of—”</p><p>Riley broke away forcefully. “That is no ones business Byron. Consider yourself uninvited from all of the many elaborate dinner parties I throw.”</p><p>Chris motioned to Arthur with an open palm. “See. Even our own company brand stand-up comic thinks your chances are shit. You’re going about it all wrong, Riley.”</p><p>Jeffery sauntered into the middle of the group. The fake mustache along his face mask was thin and twirled up. “Gentlemen, please. Be respectful. This…” he appeared to be holding back a genuine laugh “… <em>this</em>… is a… <em>goddamnit</em>…”</p><p>Unable to control himself, and confident enough that the Doctors weren’t making another round, Jeffery lashed out with a stream of high pitched, hyena-esque laughter. Arthur turned back to the computer screen to see that his order for Rainbow Joy had been processed.</p><p> </p><p>Jason and Dean were the first to get off the elevator and stride out into the lobby.</p><p>“There they are! Back again with these fucking people,” said Dean, “my god, don’t they have lives? Their kids must be sucking on the radiators for nourishment by now.”</p><p>Gathered around outside the Oasis Headquarters was a massive protest. Hundreds if not thousands of people were holding up signs and wearing bloody, battered owl masks. Rows filled with dozens of red Bobbies stood behind riot barricades set up outside the lobby, truncheons in hand, seemingly waiting for an opportunity. Oasis security had donned their body armor and loaded their AKM seventy five round drum magazines. Tear gas canisters hung around their waists.</p><p>Jeffery wrapped a scarf around his neck. “Look at them, man, they’re rats. A bunch of fucking cowards wearing masks. Just smile and wave, boys, just smile and wave. We’ve done nothing wrong.”</p><p>Arthur was the last one out of the elevator. He tightened his white gloves and turned his cap’s floodlight on. There was a thick plume of charcoal colored smoke rising from beyond the barricades.</p><p>“I’m thinking Tito’s place for lunch,” said Byron.</p><p>The rest of the group nodded their heads in agreement.</p><p>Leon walked over. “You boys are always making my life so goddamn difficult, you know that?” His German accent became more pronounced when he hissed. “Why can’t you just eat in the cafeteria?”</p><p>“Because, my good man…” Riley postured up and gazed dotingly upon the American flag hung above the lobby entrance. “… This country was founded on the most basic principal that a man, <em>any man</em>, can go out to eat, on his measly ninety minute lunch break, wherever the fuck he so damn well chooses. By the people! For the people! Tito’s!”</p><p>Leon got a look in his eye like he wanted to spit, but restrained himself. “If you insist, gentlemen. Please follow me. Stay close. And do not antagonize the mob. We have guns, they do not. But today, <em>ja</em>, they have brought fire. Things have been civil so far, they’re only torching the police cars. Let’s all do our best to keep it that way.”</p><p>Leon took the lead and opened the door outside. A cold rush of air flooded the lobby. Arthur stood at the top of the steps that led into Oasis and looked out over the endless waves of protestors. They stood on the roofs of cars, some burning and some not, and on each other’s shoulders holding signs as high up as their arms could reach. They demanded the release of Oasis’ confidential patient records, amongst a myriad of other things Arthur knew they stood no chance of ever getting. Oasis security—Bobbies with access to the special stocks in the armory—took the same position that Arthur did at the top of the stairs, only with much itchier trigger fingers.</p><p>Arthur descended the steps and followed Leon along with the rest of the loyal Tito’s patrons. The crowd cried and shrieked. They hurled insults and made crude gestures. They had almost rounded the corner to the parking garage when a glass bottle came hurtling towards Jeffery. It missed and broke on the pavement next to him.</p><p>“DO NOT!” Leon shouted.</p><p>Jeffery broke from the group. He approached the mob behind the barricade with his arms raised and beat his chest. “OKAY. ALRIGHT. WHICH ONE OF YOU COCKLESS WHELPS THREW THAT FUCKING BOTTLE?”</p><p>Leon rushed over and made an attempt to restrain Jeffery.</p><p>Another bottle came raining down from the sky. This one Jeffery was able to catch, and he threw it back into the crowd.</p><p>The bottle struck a member of the mob that had been wearing an owl mask, and said protestor immediately fell to the ground.</p><p>Leon pulled Jeffery back. “DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT YOU’VE JUST DONE?”</p><p>In an instant the mob threw its collective weight against the barricades, lunging for the red Bobbies who were overwhelmingly delighted to meet them. A barrage of bottles and rocks poured down. Leon broke off in a sprint with the desk jockey’s not far behind him.</p><p>Arthur stood back. The Bobbies broke their truncheons as they furiously battered in the heads of protestors. They gouged eyes until the blood ran down their forearms, and snapped necks a full hundred and eighty degrees. Arthur shifted his morbid gaze to the Bobbies atop the stairs, the ones that had just slid gas masks over their pristine white face coverings. A blanket of tear gas fell over the street, mixing in with the snowfall.</p><p>A beer can filled with rocks struck Arthur in the head, cracking his face mask and knocking his helmet clean off. He collided with the pavement before the blood could even begin flowing down from the gash across his brow.</p><p>As the Bobbies opened fire, an Irish accent in the distance drowned out the terrified screams and dropped shell casings.</p><p>
  <em>“You know that gum you like, boyo, it’s gonna come back in style.”</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Your Favorite Gum</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Arthur gets patched up by a sketchy Irishman.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u">
    <b>Send in the Clowns</b>
    <b>(Arthur)</b>
  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span class="u">
    <b>December 14</b>
  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Is it just me, or is it getting crazier out there?” Arthur held a damp cloth against the side of his head.</p>
<p>“No… it’s just you <em>boyo</em>,” said Zane. The Irishman—Bobby-In-Arms and fellow remover of discrete problems no one’s supposed to know about—yanked a piece of silicone from the side of Arthur’s head. “That outta be the last one.”</p>
<p>“You didn't have tweezers?”</p>
<p>Zane admired the pair of <em>Klein</em> brand, industrial pliers in his right hand. “Well… suppose I coulda asked the mob of rampaging lunatics if they wouldn't mind loanin’ me a pair. Then again, they didn't quite appear to be in a<em> tea-and-crumpets</em> sorta mood.”</p>
<p>“You cleaned them at least… right?”</p>
<p>Zane gave Arthur a fresh cloth and reached for a bottle of rubbing alcohol. “Don't act like this is the first time I ever patched a fucker up. Don't act this is the first time I ever patched <em>you </em>up, fucker. Now brace yourself, cover your eyes and shut your hole, cause this shit’s about to sting worse than gettin’ the clap from your stepsister.”</p>
<p>Zane held the bottle over Arthur’s head and let the alcohol drip out over the cuts in his hair. The entire left side of his face felt like it was on fire. Arthur looked in the little dish that held all the bits of his face mask that Zane had pulled from his head. He wanted to ask for a mirror, to figure out just how horribly disfigured he’d look at dinner, but thought better of it. Arthur didn't want to know, at least not in that moment.</p>
<p>“Best part’s next, boyo,” said Zane. He produced a needle and thread.</p>
<p>“You know I’m missing lunch right now at Tito’s.”</p>
<p>“<em>Oh fuck</em>… I could go for a porterhouse right now. And some truffle fries. Maybe a poached and buttered up lobster tail. Shame on you to make the doctor bloody ravenous, Arthur, <em>shame</em>.”</p>
<p>“You got anything to eat here?” Arthur barely winced as the needle went through his skin.</p>
<p>“Some egg salad from Vlad’s… don’t know how good it is, though. Peanut butter and jelly is always in style. Course my supply of jellybeans is bottomless, so skipping lunch altogether is an option I’m affording you.”</p>
<p>“<em>Some doctor</em>,” Arthur scoffed.</p>
<p>“Who were ya headed out with?”</p>
<p>“Jeffery—”</p>
<p>“Who knew you could teach a sidewinder to put on a suit and tie…”</p>
<p>“Oh come off it—”</p>
<p>“… <em>ah</em>, <em>ah</em>… I wasn't done… who knew you could teach a sidewinder to shave and cake on pounds of dime-store aftershave like it was talcum powder.” Zane polished off the last of his stitches. He layered down gauze and then took a step back. “Boyo, this may just be my masterpiece.”</p>
<p>“Do I even want to ask?”</p>
<p>“You went from having the grand canyon across the side of your head to having a neat story to tell at the club. You'll need to get a new face from corporate, but other than that, all I could do now for ya is find a nice, young polish girl with green hair to top you off. Shall I?”</p>
<p>“Piss off,” said Arthur.</p>
<p>“Well how’s that for gratitude? You take a minute, get yourself stable. Don’t slip and undo all my hard work now.”</p>
<p>Zane loaded all his tools up and carted them into the kitchen, leaving Arthur alone in the bedroom of the Irishman’s apartment. He could hear the Zane open the refrigerator and begin humming to himself.</p>
<p>“Zane?”</p>
<p>“Fuck you want? Did ya fall?”</p>
<p>“No… just wanted to say thanks.”</p>
<p>Zane popped his head back in with a jar of strawberry jam in one hand. “Don't mention it boyo. We lot gotta look out for each other after all. If not us, who the fuck else will?”</p>
<p>The Irishman meandered back into the kitchen. For a flat as small as Zane’s, he fit nearly an entire dragon’s horde of trinkets in it. The walls were lined with little shelves.There were bobble heads of baseball players Arthur was sure Zane had never even heard of. There were souvenir poker chips and golf balls, labels still on, and snow-globes; a vast array of them gathered from tourist traps all over the city. The Statue of Liberty, Empire State Building, Brooklyn Bridge, and Central Park were all held in a variety of colored and apple themed globes.</p>
<p>Arthur slowly rose to his feet and felt his head. He supposed he should be lucky it was a can that struck him, and not glass, but he wasn’t in a particularly <em>‘glass half full’</em> sort of mood. Everyday the mob outside Oasis grew larger and larger. Arthur figured a clock was ticking somewhere on the top floor, where Upper Management dwelled. It was, after all, only a matter of time before the crowd grew bold enough to rush the barricades and storm inside. Sure, most if not all of them would die—anyone who escaped would have the Doctors sicced on them—but they would get to see for themselves at least that what they were looking for wasn’t even real.</p>
<p>Arthur left the bedroom and approached the main window of Zane’s flat that looked out over the city. New York was a delicate ecosystem. It knew there was an infestation of suits and faux policemen, peddling happiness at three hundred and seventy five dollars a share. The city was only reacting naturally to an outside and alien threat, but it was a futile gesture to even bother trying to expunge Oasis. The entire country was infested. Joy Doctors were nested in every corner of the Land of the Free: small town, big city, rural suburb, or vast stretch of nothing in the middle of Ohio.</p>
<p>At the turn of the year, a petite Japanese girl in a comically short miniskirt and a thick layer of neon blue eye shadow had given a speech to the marketing department. Arthur had sat in the back, out of sight. She droned on about brands for close to two hours and had likely said the word <em>‘Happiness’</em> eleven thousand times. Then, when the verbal onslaught had finally subsided, the Japanese girl took a stack full of papers and lit them on fire. Arthur didn't even need to ask what they were, because it was obvious to everyone in the room. Any mention of deaths related to Joy, even a document that had the two words on the same page, had to go. It wasn't on brand. Oasis managed the living, the dead were an unnecessary statistic.</p>
<p>“You contemplating the Bay of Pigs over there?” Zane was perched at the counter with a PB&amp;J in one hand, and a Dr. Pepper in the other.</p>
<p>“Why do you buy all that shit?”</p>
<p>“What shit?”</p>
<p>“You have the same snow-globe from four different stores, I don’t understand it,” said Arthur.</p>
<p>“You ain’t gotta understand it. I see ‘em in the window, they’re cheap, I get one. The water in those things doesn’t last forever, ya know. Gotta replenish my stock every once and a while.”</p>
<p>“If you say so. Do you remember that little Japanese girl?”</p>
<p>“The schoolgirl?”</p>
<p>“Yeah, that’s the one.”</p>
<p>“Oh, you bet I do. Wondered to myself <em>‘where the fuck are her parents?’ </em>Then <em>‘why the fuck is she talking to Marketing like they’re a bunch of retarded geese?’ </em>I put five hundred on her not being from around here, and another thousand on her bein’ a spook,” said Zane.</p>
<p>“With who?”</p>
<p>“None ‘a your goddamn business <em>with who</em>. Just focus on not getting stampeded, yeah.”</p>
<p>“Well I wasn't exactly trying to,” said Arthur.</p>
<p>“Didn't look that way to me. You know we got a pretty good cafeteria. They got some… little fruit cups… and… tater tots. They got tater tots!”</p>
<p>“Yeah, but Tito’s—”</p>
<p>“Is great, <em>whatever</em>, it ain't for <em>you</em>,” said Zane.</p>
<p>“The fuck it’s not, they take my credit card.”</p>
<p>“It’s for the suits, boyo, and lest ye forget, you ain’t a fucking suit. There’s a difference between you and the Mergers twats who use you as cover for their lunch escapades. Management don't talk to those guys. Someone in Accounting needs word on something, they’re put through to a secretary or <em>assistant associate</em>, however the hell they refer to themselves these days. But when Management needs something done proper, they bend our ear. Outside of the office Christmas party, you’re probably the only person that ever sees Anton. They might dress nicer, but we’re the cunts that shampoo the carpet when someone gets sliced open end to end by a Doctor at four in the morning. Bobbies ain’t the expendable ones, boyo,” said Zane.</p>
<p>“You wanna tell the owls that?”</p>
<p>“Nah… we’re the ones with guns. Sooner or later, either they’ll get the memo, or natural selection will do all the heavy lifting for me. You fixing to head back out there?”</p>
<p>“Yeah… I gotta pick up a very important lady.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. The Hardy Boys Interlude</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A whistleblower is discovered at Oasis.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>“The Hardy Boys, two young whippersnappers with a penchant for cracking capers. The Hardy Boys in: The Mystery of the Byway Murders.”</em>
</p><p>The Hardy Boys walk on screen. The television instantly goes black. In the reflection: a Joy Doctor named Matthew Prince. His trench coat is unbuttoned, his smiling face mask—complete with a bushy brown mustache—is on. With the remote in hand, he hovers over a few buttons. Laid across the plaid couch is his industrial saw. Miscellaneous and bloody surgical tools lay on a side table next to him. Matthew’s Wellington boots are kicked up and straining a glass coffee table. His gloves, also bloody, are off. The television turns on once again and the channel is abruptly changed.</p><p>
  <em>“The Hardy Boys, two young whippersnappers with a neck for solving mysteries. The Hardy Boys in: The Disappearance of the Hedgeford Estate.”</em>
</p><p>The television goes black again. Matthew leans forward and places the remote down. He pauses briefly. Doctors move about the cabin behind him. A mounted boar hangs above the doorway into the living room. Pictures line the walls. There are fishermen out on a serene, clear blue lake; barns in the middle of still cornfields; warm, quite slices of midwestern America.</p><p>Matthew gets up and the world around him seems to come into color. A gramophone is removed from its case, as another Doctor sifts through records in pristine, organized rows. Matthew passes through the cabin and steps outside. The world is split in two. The left: a dirt road leading back up through a light, not particularly dense forest. It is caked in sunlight. In the middle of the divide is a windowless black van. The windshield is tinted; impossible to see through. The tires are coated in mud and gravel.</p><p>A Doctor is hosing out the back. The hose itself is connected to a tank attached to the Doctor’s back. He is using a special, strong smelling chemical that Matthew can’t quite put his finger on. Blood seeps out onto the ground; a puddle of muck begins to form. The Doctor is wearing a gas mask. Spray from the hose blows back in the breeze onto his coat and mask. The wind was chilling and it pierced Matthew’s skin and gripped his bones.</p><p>To the right of the van is a vast lake. The clouds are thick and gray above. A dense mist covers roughly the entire lake. The waters, while deep, are motionless. Two Doctors sit on the dock, sipping unlabeled soda through red and blue themed bendy straws. As Matthew veers to the right, he passes them and they briefly turn to acknowledge him.</p><p>Matthew moves past the dock and a small shack is unveiled through the mist. He breathes a few deep, frigid breaths. As he opens the shack door, the realization that he has forgotten his gloves hits him. There is a work bench on the left side of the shack with a bloody hacksaw out. To the right is a tool stand. A metal bunker hatch is in the back, below a window that looks into the distance of the forest.</p><p>Matthew glimpses a pair of Doctors lugging shovels walking about. Their presence is only illuminated by the light from a single lantern. Matthew puts a code into the bunker hatch keypad, but is rejected. Resigned, he starts to make his way back to the main cabin. He trudges through piles of leaves, and sees only one light on in the cabin kitchen. The rocking bench outside the cabin flows in the wind. Another van shows up, headlights on—piercing the now all-consuming mist—and parks. More Doctors pile out.</p><p>Matthew enters the cabin and finds three Doctors in the kitchen. Two are eating ham, Swiss, and mustard sandwiches—the third is making himself one. Matthew walks through the kitchen and into the living room. He retrieves his gloves and puts them on. He moves further through the cabin, past more rows of picture frames that hung ornately from the walls but were filled with stock pictures. A table in the hallway houses an elaborately designed Chinese vase full of faux flowers. Matthew stops in front of the door that leads down into the basement.</p><p>He turns the handle and sticks his hand out, grasping for a string. He finds it, pulls it, and a dim light comes on. Matthew grabs hold of the railing and slowly descends the old, creaky wooden staircase. At the bottom is cracked concrete. Rectangular windows at the top of the basement let little light in. In the northeastern corner is a dusty water heater.</p><p>Matthew crosses the basement and finds another bunker door, connected in some fashion to the previous one. In front of the door is a metal desk with a Doctor fast asleep; eyes soundly shut behind the face mask. Without waking the Doctor, Matthew examined a piece of paper on the desk that held the new set of passwords. Having gained his means of entrance, he left the basement. Matthew pulled the cord, cutting the light, and quietly closed the door.</p><p>He hears a record scratch and a soft melody come on.</p><p>
  <em>“ I may not always love you. But long as there are stars above you. You never need to doubt it. I’ll make you so sure about it. God only knows what I'd be without you.”</em>
</p><p>It was a barbershop quartet cover, but Matthew still hummed a little beat to himself. Outside the cabin, the Doctors had removed a blindfolded man from the van and were in the process of dragging him through the mist. Matthew returned to the shack. He looked out the back window and saw the Doctors digging by lamplight. He inputed the new code and was granted entrance to the bunker. He climbed down the ladder.</p><p>Bright, white lights lined the hallway. Along the walls were posters. They all featured either a man or woman in a black suit with a red tie and face mask. Written below the grinning visage’s was: MANAGEMENT IS ALWAYS WATCHING YOU. There was an overhead speaker system, but no broadcast, and small black cameras that Matthew knew were tracking him. In the distance, he heard a radio.</p><p>
  <em>“And that’s it for me, Patty Briggs. I’m turning it over now to the fabulous Miley Austin, who’ll keep you company for the rest of the PM. I’ll be back tomorrow at ten am sharp with more classic sixties tunes. If you find yourself in need of me, I’ll be just a few short dial turns up at 104.7, sending you rocketing into the eighties, nineties, and beyond.</em>
</p><p>
  <em> Of course, don't forget to check out The Don Beasley Show every weekday at seven in the morning. Tomorrow Don sits down with Uncle Jack himself, Jack Worthing, to discuss his new show ‘You Don’t Know Jack’. That’s The Don Beasley Show, check it out. Stay safe out there everyone, and remember: the radio never stops, so why should you? Gonna send you out with Fly Me to the Moon, take it away Frankie.”</em>
</p><p>Matthew rounded the corner and came to a room where the back-end wall was filled with tiny screens, showcasing a direct feed from all the security cameras on the grounds. As he walked closer, Frank Sinatra came on over a small portable radio that sat atop a long, metal desk. Beside the radio was a small keyboard, mouse, and an alligator bobblehead wearing a blue t-shirt that said ‘<em>Go Gators</em>’. There was also a six-pack of 7-Up; two cans had already been drunk, while a third sat open with a green bendy straw sticking out. Sitting in front of the desk was Brucie. He had just taken a bite out his sandwich: roast beef, garlic mayo, lettuce, tomato, and cheddar cheese on a roll. Brucie was wearing light brown slacks and a blue, buttoned up Polo shirt.</p><p>The camera feed had an angle on nearly every speck of dirt. There was one behind the TV Matthew had been disinterestedly flicking through; behind the left eye of the mounted boar; under the rocking bench—which now had legs dangling off it. There were cameras situated high up in the surrounding trees, as well as beneath the lake waters. On Brucie’s lap was a bag of salt and vinegar chips.</p><p>“How the hell are ya, Brucie?”</p><p>“Oh, you know, same old, same old.”</p><p>“You comin’ to Ed’s place for burgers later?”</p><p>“Where’s he bringin’ in from?”</p><p>“He’s sendin’ Rich out to <em>The Burger Dominion</em>. That fancy joint with the truffle fries,” said Matthew.</p><p>“Oh… I like that place. Count me in. Since I’m probably not gettin’ outta here ‘till eight, cause you know Sammy would show up an hour late to his own funeral, stop by in a few so I can give you my order.”</p><p>“Will do.”</p><p>As Matthew left, Brucie took another handful of chips.</p><p>Outside the bunker, he was waved over to the dock by one of the Doctors from the recently arrived van.</p><p>Matthew looked out over the waters as they lay in wait. There was a Doctor with his legs now crossed on the rocking bench. The vans were gone. The Doctor who had waved Matthew over was alone, save for the man tied up, blindfolded, and gagged at his feet.</p><p>“He going across the lake?”</p><p>“Yeah, and I need you to come with me.”</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“Cause Damien is spooked by the water.”</p><p>“He is? Since when?”</p><p>“Since we pulled up.”</p><p>“That’s a bit funny, wouldn't you say?”</p><p>“Oh, sure, it’s fucking hysterical. Believe me, I’ll wring him by the neck later, but right now there’s company work to attend to. You comin’? Or does the water spook you to?”</p><p>“Nah Reggie… I’m good,” said Matthew.</p><p>“Appreciated. I owe you <em>one </em>drink, fair?”</p><p>“Fair.”</p><p>The Ferryman approached on a small, oval shaped boat that he rowed with a long, thick oar. Matthew got on and sat in the front. Reggie and his captive sat in the middle. The Ferryman pushed off from the dock and waded into the mist.</p><p>“We just came back from Reno,” said Reggie.</p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>“Yeah, a little something on the side for Jean.”</p><p>“Isn’t Jean in jail?”</p><p>“<em>Yeah</em>… shit happens. Fat pig got too sloppy. Don't reckon he’ll be in lockup for too much longer, though.”</p><p>“You been up to the farm in Victor lately?”</p><p>“No. Why?”</p><p>“Lotta religious sort up there now,” said Matthew.</p><p>“The unpleasant kind?”</p><p>“The inhospitable kind.”</p><p>“Really?”</p><p>“Apparently they got their own operation goin’ on. Don’t want us sniffin’ around,” said Matthew.</p><p>“And… are we sniffing?”</p><p>“Yeah. Management doesn’t like the inhospitable religious sort.”</p><p>“Then I suppose neither do we,” said Reggie.</p><p>The boat cleared the mist and approached another dock in the shadow of a towering lighthouse. It was out of commission. The Ferryman let the Doctors and their guest depart. They followed the gravel path up to the lighthouse entrance. To the left and right of the path were Doctors huddled together amidst the fog having a smoke.</p><p>Inside the lighthouse was a small table with a washbasin. Matthew walked up to it and lifted his mask. There was a mirror above the basin that he quickly looked into before dipping his hands in the water and splashing some on his face. In the reflection of the mirror, he saw written on the wall: <em>‘All Of God’s Children Get Cleansed’</em>.</p><p>Matthew slid his face mask back on and turned to find Reggie waiting. There was a spiral staircase that led up, but the Doctors were headed down. Matthew gripped the metal railing and followed Reggie. At the bottom was another bunker door, much larger than the others. White lights turned on in their presence.</p><p>“What’s the situation?”</p><p>“We’ve got a whistleblower,” said Reggie.</p><p>“No shit.”</p><p>“We find out who, then, Management gives it to the Bobbies.”</p><p>“Bobbies?”</p><p>“Not the beat cops… the ones that work the furnace. Management’s resident, universal problem solvers. Hastings, Santiago, the Mick…”</p><p>“So, this is serious, then?”</p><p>“Personal medical files level shit.”</p><p>“Stuff’s not supposed to exist,” said Matthew.</p><p>“Right,” said Reggie as the bunker door opened, “and we gotta keep it that way.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. All the TV's That Raised Me</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Arthur settles in for the evening, and watches the premiere of 'You Don't Know Jack'.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u">
    <b>Send in the Clowns</b>
    <b>(Arthur)</b>
  </span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span class="u">
    <b>December 14</b>
  </span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Arthur walked down the streets of New York with no face. He still had on his uniform, but no other indication of who he was. Without the face, the outfit didn't stand out as much. He just looked like some guy in rags with gaudy gold buttons. It was liberating to slip in between groups of people much younger than himself—smoking electronic cigarettes, making outrageous faces into their phones, and speaking in abbreviations—and hardly draw a single lingering gaze. There was a group of twenty-something year old women on the corner selling tickets to The Hippo Club’s <em>Delinquents of Comedy</em> show.</p><p>The smoke that came from their nostrils was bright, neon red. Arthur declined a ticket. He—like the late, great, and dearly missed Bernie Mac—was the last of the <em>‘delinquents’</em> to perform, after all. Arthur had initially protested the moniker, finding <em>Devils of Comedy</em> infinitely more applying. Alas, he was outvoted five to three. The show was a couple of days out and Arthur still felt he needed to iron out a few kinks in his set before it was ready for prime time.</p><p>He approached the <em>A. Veidt School of Higher Education</em>. It was a fancy way of saying <em>‘high school made with a generous donation from some geezer’</em> no one ever met, saw, or confirmed even existed in the first place. Regardless of the actual number on the check, Arthur figured whoever had been in charge of construction spent most of it on bath salts. The school could barely fit some four hundred students. There was no parking lot, gymnasium, or clean water in the fountains. The word <em>‘fag’ </em>had been written in chalk, spray paint, and magic marker on nearly every brick wall, window, and slab of concrete. The fonts and colors varied. There was also no wheelchair ramp.</p><p>A security guard from inside came out to greet Arthur.</p><p>“Sorry, Mr. Hastings, I can’t let you in.”</p><p>“Why not, Larry?”</p><p>“New rules. Never know who might have a gun these days.”</p><p>Arthur did a once over on the place. “Who’d want to shoot up this place?”</p><p>“Beg your pardon?”</p><p>“Nothing… any word on that ramp?”</p><p>“Nothing,” Larry scratched at the stubble on his chin, “sorry.”</p><p>Arthur could hear the bell ring. Students—backpacks slung over one shoulder, phones in one hand, spray paint in the other—began piling out. In the middle of the crowd was a thirteen year old girl in a wheel chair; backpack in her lap, purple highlights in her hair. The little silver necklace hanging around her neck read: <em>Tyreen</em>.</p><p>“I gotta help her, Larry.”</p><p>“What’s that? <em>Oh</em>, yeah. Sure thing.”</p><p>Larry was the type of guy that wouldn’t see the asteroid coming at him if it was a foot above his head.</p><p>Arthur made his way through the newly freed kids. He bent down and gave Tyreen a hug.</p><p>“Dad… what happened to your head?”</p><p>“Cut myself shaving.”</p><p>Tyreen rolled her eyes as Arthur took hold of her wheelchair and began pushing.</p><p>“That better not be from your set.”</p><p>“Don’t worry, it’s not. That one was just for you, kid.”</p><p>Tyreen blew raspberries all the way home.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>It was just a few short blocks from the high school, but it may very well have been in an entirely different state. Not as upscale as what surrounded Oasis, or as modern as the Village, but the <em>Woodlands</em> luxury apartment complex—if you interpreted the luxury part metaphorically—was all Arthur needed. Two bedrooms, one and a half bathrooms, a kitchen, and a living room. Most importantly, a wheelchair ramp outside and an elevator that never stalled. Arthur was on the fifth floor, just high enough to see above the trees dotted around the complex. It was a quiet area with decent people that didn't pry or take notice of what time you strolled through the lobby carrying those extra large black garbage bags.</p><p>Once she was inside Tyreen threw her backpack on the floor and sped away to her room.</p><p>“You better come back for that!”</p><p>“Love you dad!”</p><p>Arthur sighed and picked up her bag. It was packed with folders and notebooks, filled with more doodles than math equations. She had a box of color pencils and a bottle of Rainbow Joy. Arthur took it out and examined it. <em>Tyreen Hastings. Two Pills per day. Once before breakfast. Once after dinner. </em>There were only three pills left.</p><p>Tyreen, fresh out of her school clothes and sporting an all black hoodie two sizes too big, rolled into the kitchen. “So… whatcha makin’?”</p><p>“Depends…” Arthur dropped the bottle back in her bag and zipped it up. “… tell me what’s happening in AP Bio.”</p><p>“They’re taking our frogs away.”</p><p>“Dissection is a bit medieval. Don’t know why they’d have you doing it to begin with.”</p><p>“Because Mr. Rodriguez wanted to make our day a little less… can I swear? Just one, I promise.”</p><p>“Just <em>one</em>.”</p><p>“Mr. Rodriguez wanted to make our day a little less fucking benign. But <em>whatever</em>… I want spaghetti. Can you make spaghetti?”</p><p>“Yes. You want meatballs?”</p><p>“Yep-yep.”</p><p>“Beef or lamb?”</p><p>“Surprise me garçon.”</p><p>“That’s the waiter.”</p><p>“Well, I’m not French…” Tyreen wheeled herself out of the kitchen and into the living room. She lifted herself onto the couch.</p><p>“There enough room for me?”</p><p>“<em>Yeah</em>…”</p><p>Arthur found the spaghetti. He laid out some garlic and parsley on a cutting board, along with the olive oil. He took the lamb from the refrigerator and washed his hands.</p><p>“Dad?”</p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>“Be serious, what happened to your head?”</p><p>“Just got into a bit of a scuffle is all.”</p><p>“I thought you didn't work security.”</p><p>“I don’t… these things just happen some time.”</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“Because… not everyone agrees with the way Oasis does things.”</p><p>Arthur heard Tyreen sigh and turn the TV on. “Dad?”</p><p>“You gonna impart some wisdom on me now?”</p><p>“Yeah… your company sucks.”</p><p>Arthur started laughing. So much so that the side of his face began to hurt.</p><p>“<em>And I don't even have a set</em>…” Tyreen muttered to herself as she began flipping the channels.</p><p>Arthur took an egg from the refrigerator. He laid out some breadcrumbs and red pepper flakes for the meatballs. As he began mixing everything together the TV stopped.</p><p>
  <em>“The Hardy Boys—”</em>
</p><p>“Nope,” said Tyreen, “not happening.”</p><p>“They were my favorite you know.”</p><p>“Yeah. But television is all about compromise. What time does that new show of yours come on?”</p><p>“<em>You Don’t Know Jack</em>? That’s a talk show, I thought you didn't like talk shows.”</p><p>“I don’t, but I wanna see what kind of production your boys put on.”</p><p>“I don’t know that many people in marketing, let alone the people that make that…”</p><p>“<em>Monstrosity</em>? Won’t know till we watch it.”</p><p>“Fine. But there’s a monster movie marathon starting at nine.”</p><p>“See, <em>compromise</em>.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Arthur held two bowls of spaghetti in his hand. There were ten meatballs. Tyreen got six. Arthur laid the bowls down on a coffee table. “Utensil of choice and beverage?”</p><p>“Fork and… do we have Ginger Ale?”</p><p>“Of course we do,” Arthur leaned over and kissed Tyreen’s forehead.</p><p>“Thank you, <em>garçon</em>.”</p><p>Arthur retrieved a Ginger Ale and a bottle of Fiji water from the refrigerator, a blue bendy straw, and two forks. He came back to find an extra meatball had been donated to him.</p><p>“I can’t believe you’re making me watch this.”</p><p>“Where’s your company spirit? <em>Part of the crew</em>, <em>part of the ship</em>.”</p><p>“Yeah, yeah.” Arthur changed the channel just as seven o’clock rolled around. Tyreen twirled some spaghetti around her fork and Arthur tried to mimic her, with little success.</p><p>On the TV, a series of logos were displayed. First, the Oasis owl. Then an image of the Earth with an accompanying: <em>Big Mountain Productions</em>. Finally, a young Japanese girl flashed on screen and everything turned purple. “フランタシーフランを購入する,” she said, and then disappeared.</p><p>Tyreen swatted her father’s hands away and took his fork, wrangling up some spaghetti for him. “How would you get by without me?”</p><p>“By eating penne.”</p><p>Tyreen scrunched up her whole face. “Someday I’ll hear your good material. <em>Someday</em>…”</p><p>A raucous studio applause came blasting out of the television.</p><p>
  <em>“And now it’s time for You Don’t Know Jack, with the one and only Jack Worthing. Please welcome your host, the man himself: Jack!”</em>
</p><p>The curtains pulled away and out sauntered Uncle Jack. Complete in an olive green, three pice suit and tie. His bright, pristine white face mask caught Arthur off guard.</p><p>Arthur looked over and saw Tyreen clapping.</p><p>Uncle Jack danced over to his desk, waving to the audience and pointing at the band as he did so. When he finally sat down, there was silence.</p><p><em>“Welly, welly, welly, welly, well. Good evening my brothers and sisters. Watching from wherever you may be. Either joining us here in New York City, or from someplace else in these United States. Allow me to welcome you to what I imagine will be the first of many, many broadcasts. This is You Don’t Know Jack, and if I’m reading these cue-cards correctly, which I like to think I am, that would make me Jack.” </em>Arthur felt as though Uncle Jack was looking directly at him, holding a knife a quarter of an inch from his eyes. <em>“Let’s get started, shall we.”</em></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Back of the Paddywagon</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Arthur has a bizarre dream, then meets Santiago for coffee.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u">
    <b>Send in the Clowns (Arthur)</b>
  </span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span class="u">
    <b>December 15</b>
  </span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Arthur awoke at five forty five in the morning from a bizarre dream. In his vision, which seemed so real he had to go through his memories to make sure it had never actually happened to him before, he was working the desk at an old antique shop in south London. In the borough of Bromley, precisely. It was the start of his shift, eight in the morning sharp. The old geezer what ran the place sat in an old, creaking rocking chair upstairs and could overhear every transaction that got made. He’d tap his cane on the floor once for a good deal, and twice for a shoddy one.</p><p>Arthur could tell from the looks of the place that no one ever really came in, and if they did, they got two taps and were sent packing, empty handed. The cash register, though not opened in the dream, was probably stuffed with cobwebs. Arthur could recall the exact placement of his hands above a glass display case. He was polishing it when a young Japanese man walked in.</p><p>It looked like a kid, complete with a baseball-cap and gold chain, on his way to high school. Arthur had perked up and so had the old geezer at the faint ring of the door chime. The kid walked around the righthand side of the store, meticulously gazing over, behind, and under each and every item on display. When he was done, he glared over the left side. The kid was dissatisfied and showed it clearly on his face. It was almost as if he knew where something was <em>supposed</em> to be, but it wasn’t anymore, and that really pissed him off. The kid turned to Arthur and looked pissed off at him, because he was probably the one that had moved it.</p><p><em>“There a back room?” </em>The kid had asked.</p><p><em>“No. Everything we have is out here,” </em>Arthur had replied, shaking his head.</p><p>This answer proved doubly unsatisfactory. The kid walked up to the display case Arthur had been wiping down and placed both his clenched fists down on the glass, hard enough to shake and almost break it.</p><p><em>“You had a bottle on that shelf three days ago. Where is it?” </em>The kid motioned to one of the shelves on the right side, closest to the door, visible from the street.</p><p>
  <em>“What kind of bottle?”</em>
</p><p><em> “The kind genies come out of.” </em>The kid’s face was deadly serious, he wasn't trying to be sarcastic.</p><p><em>“I-I-I-I’m—”</em> Arthur had stammered, the syntax needed to respond eluded him.</p><p>The kid got impatient and reached across the display case, grabbing Arthur by the collar of his shirt. He raised his fist and yelled and then Arthur jolted awake.</p><p>He wasn't the sort to dwell much on what picture show his subconscious played to amuse itself while his body recharged. However, the kid in the antique shop asking about a genie bottle stood out as a genuine oddity. Arthur chuckled to himself. He hadn't had a nightmare in almost twenty years. That must be a record.</p><p>Arthur placed his feet on the cold wood floor and opened the curtains. New York was still asleep, as was Tyreen. She’d enjoyed Uncle Jack’s performance, he hadn’t. Arthur was unimpressed and got bored after the opening monologue had finished. Though, he supposed it wasn’t meant for him. He knew Oasis. He’d worked for them for as long as he could remember, since the last time he’d had a nightmare. Uncle Jack wasn't talking to him, he was talking to everyone else. The people that didn't know the furnace room existed and never would unless Arthur himself was feeding them in.</p><p>Arthur thought the act was clever, if he knew who’d conjured it up, he’d give them a pat on the back. It’d never last, though. Jack had a look in his eye that Arthur recognized. It was all too terribly familiar. The man underneath all the faces, wearing the skin of Jack Worthing, deeply desired to bash pedestrians heads in with a nine iron. The solution to that dilemma—if there was one to be found—wasn’t one Arthur needed to trouble himself with finding, though. All Arthur needed to do was wake Tyreen up for school.</p><p>By the time he was done stretching and gazing out over the city still in its slumber, it had only just turned six. He wouldn't need to wake her for another hour at least. Arthur walked slowly and quietly to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of milk. His set was the sixteenth, and Arthur hadn't the faintest idea about what bit he should start with.</p><p>There was the time-honored classic about the family barbecue—that was’t actually with <em>his</em> family—but lately Arthur had been getting great reception about the stint he worked as a cabbie. There was always an over-exaggerated yarn to spin about the two priests and a rabbi headed to a strip joint on the upper west side, or the five Pakistani midgets headed down Broadway to see <em>Wicked</em>. He’d probably wait to get to The Hippo Club with the rest of his troupe and sort it all out with them. He didn't want to clash with Cassie’s bit about having a threesome at an AA meeting, or Petyr’s reimagining of the time he stole a tour bus in Los Angeles.</p><p>Arthur finished his milk and placed the glass in the sink. He tiptoed back to his room and saw he’d been contacted. Santiago needed to meet at the <em>Platinum Guitar </em>coffee shop at ten. Arthur laid back down in his bed. He looked up at the ceiling, and then closed his eyes very tightly. He tried his best to remember what the Japanese kid’s face had looked like to no avail. Arthur responded to Santiago. He resigned to forget about the genie until his mind took him back to that antique shop. If it ever did. He looked at his bottle of Blackberry Joy and decided to leave it closed. He wanted another run-in with the Japanese kid, if only to politely tell him he was mistaken, and that genie bottles were sold in the shop across the street.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Arthur arrived at the <em>Platinum Guitar </em>at exactly nine fifty nine. It was a hole-in-the-wall with only three roasts, but that wasn't why Santiago liked the place. They also sold lightly toasted croissants filled with dark chocolate for five bucks even. The Ecuadorian sat all the way in the back, in a corner booth, dark roast barely touched. He was already onto his second croissant.</p><p>“One day you’re gonna grow fat,” said Arthur.</p><p>“<em>One day</em>… is a problem for another me,” Santiago ripped a gooey piece of croissant off and dangled it above his mouth.</p><p>Arthur rolled his eyes and sat across from Santiago. The namesake of the place, a sparkling platinum guitar, sat in a shelf behind the counter. Apparently it was signed by Billy Joel, but on the back, where no one could verify. A waiter came over and asked if Arthur wanted anything.</p><p>“You have any of those little… jelly… pop… <em>things</em>?”</p><p>“Yes sir. How many would you like?”</p><p>Arthur could feel Santiago’s glare. “Two please. And a dark roast.”</p><p>The waiter left. Santiago, in victory, snickered and drank his coffee. The Leech—his stage name—wasn't particularly tall. He stood at five six, really five five and a half. He had jet black hair, a goatee, and wore black nail polish. Arthur didn't ask questions, the man didn't like to talk about himself.</p><p>“So what’s happening in our world? Are we getting another delivery of Germans?”</p><p>“No… this shit comes from the Doctors up in Maine. Cobbosseecontee… however the fuck you say that… <em>lake</em>. They got a big bite for us.”</p><p>“Usually we don’t hear from Maine unless someone’s set a very large fire. Why aren’t we calling the fire department?”</p><p>“Cause Management wants <em>you</em>,” said Santiago.</p><p>“They want me? <em>Personally</em>?”</p><p>“So I’ve been told. We’ve got a rat, Arthur. Loose lips blowing big fucking kisses out the porthole.”</p><p>“A Bobby?”</p><p>“Nothing so simple, man.” Santiago silenced himself just as the waiter came over with Arthur’s order. Once he left and was out of earshot, Santiago leaned in. “We’re hunting a <em>suit</em>. Some company stooge is whistling an off tune in all the wrong directions.”</p><p>“Marketing? Accounting?”</p><p>“We don’t have the slightest fucking idea. After we’re done here, Management wants to debrief. I don’t know if they got something new, yet, but I suppose we’ll see soon enough. This shit is bad, man. We’re gonna have people fucking turning on each other trying to find this cocksucker. We’re gonna have to sift through all these suits and their private shit, the affairs with mail order Swedes and illegitimate kids in the Caribbean. <em>Fuck me</em>.”</p><p>Arthur took a sip of his coffee. “Should be a gas, though.”</p><p>“Yeah, Arthur, I’m sure it will be… <em>for you</em> at least.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Kira Wulf</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Arthur gets debriefed by Management. Includes the second comedy set interlude.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u">
    <strong>Send in the Clowns (Arthur)</strong>
  </span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span class="u">
    <b>December 15</b>
  </span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Arthur and Santiago walked around the back of the Oasis Headquarters and entered through the rear entrance. Key card access was needed to get in and The Leech provided it. Another light snowfall began as the door shut behind them. The rear entrance only had one hallway, and it led to a single elevator that exclusively went up to the top floor. Only Management dwelled there. The nicest, neatest, and blackest of all the suits.</p><p>On the ride up, a quite organ hum—not quite unlike what you’d hear walking into a seven a.m. mass at a small town church—echoed in the elevator.</p><p>“Whaddya thinking for your set at the Hippo?”</p><p>“Barbecue bit,” said Arthur.</p><p>“Can’t go wrong with a classic.”</p><p>“What about you?”</p><p>“Still polishing up my Belfast accent. Zane says I’m a few months off. So I’m not sure. Hope we’re still able to make it,” said Santiago.</p><p>“Buschwick will have us killed if we don’t.”</p><p>“And will it be a quick and painless death, Mr. Monster?”</p><p>“<em>No</em>,” said Arthur with a slight smile.</p><p>The elevator doors opened and Harold Ridgewell—operating director of <em>Health and Wellness</em>—stood waiting in his red wellingtons flanked by two Joy Doctors.</p><p>“You and me have business, now, Hastings.”</p><p>“That come from Management?”</p><p>Harold leaned in so that his face mask nearly grazed Arthur’s nose. Their eyes locked. “<em>Yes</em>… yes I’m deathly afraid for you, <em>it does</em>. Be seeing you, Hastings. Right across the street. You are a person, right? Get ready to know a lot of people.” Harold and his Doctors pushed past and entered the elevator.</p><p>The waiting area of the forty eighth floor was entirely black. The walls, the furniture—from the velvety chairs to the empty flower vases—and the ebony marble stone beneath their feet. There were four rectangular white lights that pointed up to the ceiling, positioned on the sides of the two doors that led out of the waiting area. One exit was labeled <em>Global</em>, the other <em>Regional</em>.</p><p>Arthur and Santiago each took a seat. There was a sliding, plastic window in the middle of the wall opposite the elevator. Behind it was the outline of an empty desk. Outside of two potted, fake palm trees Arthur couldn't make out anything behind the window.</p><p>“Why’d you pass up Ridgewell’s offer?”</p><p>“Because he’s insufferable,” said Arthur.</p><p>“Being a Doctor pays at least eight times more, Arthur. Come on man you gotta use that big boy brain of yours every once and a while outside of cards.”</p><p>“I like it fine here.”</p><p>“I can’t possibly imagine why,” said Santiago.</p><p>“Don't be cross with me because they don’t make wellingtons in your size.”</p><p>“Ha-Ha-<em>Cunt</em>.”</p><p>A face appeared from the void and took a seat at the desk. It was white and silicone—belonging to a slender, young woman—with bright pink cheeks and painted on black eye lashes. “<em>Hastings</em>, <em>Santiago</em>.” The Bobbies stood up and approached the window. “Global, conference room five…” The woman looked up at Arthur “… Mr. Hastings where is your mask?”</p><p>“I got caught outside yesterday.”</p><p>“<em>I see</em>.”</p><p>“Mr. Castion can humor you with the details,” said Arthur.</p><p>“Can he now?”</p><p>“<em>Yes</em>, I’m sure he’d be delighted to.”</p><p>The woman got up and disappeared into the back.</p><p>Santiago nudged Arthur’s shoulder. “Where was my invite to Tito’s?”</p><p>“I never made it.”</p><p>The woman returned with a plain mask: smooth and fresh out of the wrapper.</p><p>“This will have to do Mr. Hastings. The next one will cost you a replacement fee of five hundred dollars. I suggest relaying that to Mr. Castion.” She opened the window and handed over the mask.</p><p>“It’s perfect,” Arthur slid it on, “and I’m sure you can tell him yourself, <em>Nicole</em>.”</p><p>The door to Global opened. A long, unlit black expanse stretched out in front of the Bobbies. As they walked, the floor panels lit up underneath them. Without foreknowledge they would’ve been stuck fumbling in the dark, likely interrupting other meetings and getting hopelessly lost in the process. However, Arthur and Santiago knew the the labyrinth that was the forty eighth floor like it was their childhood cul-de-sac.</p><p>Conference room five was the first right, on the left hand side. The pair didn't do much business in Global. For the most part, they only came around for routine board meetings or annual reviews. The air within conference room five was much different, though. Arthur could smell desperation, and from the head of the table, fear.</p><p>“Hello Victoria,” said Arthur as he sat down. Bobbies filled the room beyond capacity, forcing Santiago to pull up a folding chair next to Arthur. Somewhere in the room, likely close to the head, was Zane. Elsewhere, the rest of his troupe: Cassie, Ed, Natalie, Megan, and Petyr.</p><p>Underneath the projection of a powerpoint presentation, Victoria Byng sat at the head of the table. Sweat slowly dripped down her dark brown skin. She’d removed her bowler hat and the long, brown hair usually kept in a tight, neat bun underneath it was starting to become undone. Strands poked out at odd angles and briefly eclipsed the glare emanating from behind her face mask. She’d even removed her piercing red gloves, revealing gnawed down, chipped, and broken nails.</p><p>“You’re late, <em>Arthur</em>,” Victoria hissed.</p><p>“<em>Fashionably</em>. Maybe next time you should send the limo.” A few Bobbies chuckled. “You know how pedestrians are in this bloody city. I saw the other day they have these things you put in front of crosswalks that blow steam and shoot out red lights if you try to cross when it’s green, but you know if they got ‘em here someone would just steal them.” A few more Bobbies began to snicker. “Can't have shit in New York, I’m surprised they don’t jack the road rollers as they’re paving. In fact, I’m surprised there’s even asphalt left to pave <em>with</em>.” The Bobbies erupted in laughter. “You watch, one day we’re all gonna walk by and this building is gonna be… <em>poof</em>… gone. You’ll find half of it down in Staten Island, a quarter in Bay Ridge…” Arthur couldn't help himself any longer and joined in on the riot. Victoria sat, fuming.</p><p>The youngest of four Byng’s—preceded by two sisters and one brother—Victoria was head of <em>Archives</em>, <em>Printing</em>, and <em>Recycling</em>. She usually worked the third floor, buried in paperwork and filing cabinets, only seeing daylight and breathing fresh air when she left for the day and before she came in the following morning. Victoria worked a paper shredder. Her brother, Arnold, worked <em>R&amp;D Management </em>back in Cologne, right across the street from the Global Oasis Corporate Offices. It was there, at the open, beating heart of Oasis, that her sisters worked: Felicity and Jupiter. The former, head of <em>Quality Control</em>, the latter, head of <em>Investor Relations</em>.</p><p>“Are you quite finished?” The Bobbies settled down. Arthur moved his head slightly to the left so as to not obscure the powerpoint. “<em>Thank you</em>.” She held up a remote and clicked a button. The first slide appeared.</p><p>Victoria cleared her throat. “These Manhattan offices have been plagued with a <em>whistleblower</em>, whose goal is to leak the confidential records of <em>all</em> our patients. Domestic and abroad. We have no identifying characteristics of any kind, physical or otherwise, to assist you in identifying the whistleblower. They could be working within a group at any level. All departments, down to the weird warehouse crew, need to be cleared beyond doubt. This needs to be done quickly and efficiently, and therefore discretion will not be a burden. Every single person working in this building, the people in this room myself included, will be questioned with the oversight of Oasis Chief Security Officer (CSO) Kira Wulf.”</p><p>A chill filled the room, slipping under the door and pulling the door handle. The floor tiles lit up in the hallway, but there was no sound of footsteps. Through the abyss emerged Kira Wulf. His feet weren’t inclined to touch the ground, instead they elected to hover a few inches above it. Kira wore a striped, silver suit and no tie. His hair was combed-over and held down with gel. He stepped down into the conference room and quietly shut the door behind him.</p><p>“Thank you for the introduction Ms. Byng. My name is Kira Wulf. I have been with Oasis for more than thirty years. I grew up in Hanover and have lived there most of my life. This is only my second time in the United States, and my first visit to New York. As Chief Security Officer, I am never not working, or so my wife likes to tell me. I am an incredibly light sleeper, so no matter the time of day, I will be available to combat the unfolding nature of this pursuit.</p><p>Make no mistake, this is a chase. Every second that goes by is a second used to hinder the effectiveness of this company, and consequently, every second used in the hunt is time wasted. Oasis needs you in your usual rotation to maintain order in the company. This will be an extraordinarily stressful stretch in this still infantile New York branch’s life. I was told prior to this there have been no outstanding tribulations for you. I don’t see that as a positive, because growth without conflict is fundamentally stunted.</p><p>However, to you, that is irrelevant. What truly matters, the most invaluable information I have to give you, is whether or not these personal medical files exist. <em>They do</em>. Oasis takes great care not to trouble anybody with their existence, due largely in part to their utter uselessness. These files serve absolutely no purpose whatsoever. Nevertheless, their contents cannot be released to the general public. If they were, the narrative we’ve crafted would get complicated. <em>Complicated</em> isn’t good for business,” Kira finished and licked his lips.</p><p>After clearing her throat again, Victoria continued her presentation.</p><p>Arthur tuned out. For a split second, he passed in the towering gaze of Kira Wulf. Arthur felt his soul briefly leave his body and get dragged down into Hell.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span class="u">
    <b>Set 2 Interlude</b>
    <b>: The Barbecue</b>
  </span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“What’s todays date?”</p><p>Arthur looked to Buschwick and she shrugged.</p><p>“<em>August</em>… August what?”</p><p>Buschwick snickered to herself. She took her drink, swished the ice around, then shouted: “the twenty sixth!”</p><p>“August twenty sixth? Still got a few days of summer left. Take my advice, don’t go to barbecues. You’ve heard this one before? It’s a favorite of mine. I’ve never had a big family gathering like that myself.</p><p>I went to one with a friend of mine, name of Sonny Blue. He’s in Hades now. The Supermax, not the Greek Underworld, though I imagine they’re quite similar. The first year I was in these luscious United States I traveled to Los Angeles with him, and we went to his ranch house. Guy had a fucking <em>ranch</em> house… still can’t get over that. The place was massive. Easily the biggest house I’ve ever seen.</p><p>More windows than there were people to look through them. I walked up the driveway and realized far too late I was ghastly underdressed. Everywhere I looked, all I saw was black suit, <em>black suit</em>, black suit. Bolo-tie, <em>striped tie</em>, leprechaun tie. I felt like I was at a Kennedy’s funeral.</p><p>Then there was his sister… <em>Anya</em>. If that woman wasn't a Shepard <em>for</em> the devil, she <em>was</em> the devil. At around… a little less than five six—so I’m told—she’s the single scariest person I’ve ever been within fifty feet of. I’m almost positive she ate people. Not the whole body. Anya left much to waste. But she ate what mattered: the heart. I’ve never actually seen her, because I hold a very deep fear to this day that if I looked at her for more than a split hair of a second I would become so completely petrified, I would be rendered immobile. Then, as I imagine it, Anya would walk right up to me and rip my heart out with what I assume are long, red nails. She’d take a big ol’ bite, maybe get a bourbon reduction and some caramelized onions on the side.</p><p>Anya Blue is the embodiment of death and human suffering, but that’s beside the point. Sonny’s family was the sort that routinely stabbed each other in the back apropos of sending a Christmas card. They swindled land in elaborate business deals where other, more mundane and simple-minded families played charades. Every single one of the motherfuckers looked like they wanted to pull out a gun, axe, chainsaw—what have you—and <em>really</em> let loose.</p><p>The food was good. That’s what everyone wants to know about, right? It’s the food. I mean that’s the only reason you go. Don’t go to cookouts for the people. There’s always someone that brought too much sunscreen and tries to pawn it off on you. Of course the one guy that wants to man the grill burns your whole backyard down. <em>Et cetera</em>.</p><p>The food I barely remember… sorry to disappoint. Most of it was grilled, there were a lot of vegetables. I remember Sonny telling me that the gargoyles in the foyer—because of fucking course the place had gargoyles—moved. I never saw it. Not that I don't believe him. He’d said it with conviction. We walked through the house and stopped in an art room. I think it was his mother’s. There was a portrait of a massive train. I mean it stretched from the ceiling to the floor. Larger than most real life trains.</p><p>It was coming out of a dark tunnel. There was a light, a very small one at that, on the front of the train. It was positioned in such a fashion so as to illuminate the top of the tunnel, as opposed to the rails. Only there wasn’t a <em>top </em>to the tunnel. Above the train was a giant, lanky scarecrow looking creature holding the reins of the train. The creature had no bones, no internal makeup, just string like apparitions. I don’t know where it was coming from, but I’m pretty sure I know where it was going. And who it was taking along for the ride.</p><p>I don’t remember much about that cookout. I can see the train. I can imagine Anya. I still think about Sonny, from time to time. As he serves life under the watchful gaze of Cerberus. Though I reckon he won’t be in there for <em>too</em> long. Moral of the story stay the fuck away from cookouts. They’re not worth the energy.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. You're A Person, I Know People</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A look into youth with Victoria; Arthur examines Ridgewell's surveillance apparatus.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u">
    <strong>Send in the Clowns (Arthur)</strong>
  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b><span class="u">Youth with Victoria:</span> The Bestselling Show</b>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Victoria Byng, at age nine, does not believe she dreams. She acknowledges the concept, and that other people do, but does not recognize her own. Every night when she goes to sleep, she glares out the window of her room until her eyes begin to hurt under the strain, actively fighting against the forces of the Sandman that aim to subdue her. The glowing rocks in her aquarium slowly fade, the tiny red and white fish inside take refuge within their hollow clay houses. Her night light, in the shape of a crescent moon, is the last thing she sees before her head melts into the pillow and her mind starts to wander.</p>
<p>Victoria starts out in a fish bowl at the bottom of the sea. She swims out and up, past the gaze of an open-mouthed, jagged teeth bared, angler fish decorated in Christmas tree lights. Above the water’s surface is a static, black and white television screen. Victoria emerges from the sea and floats up, passing through the silver screen, and into the cold vacuum of space. At first the gleam of the stars and the dripping, crimson hue of Mars delights her senses, then her breaths become more labored. She thrashes, kicking with her feet and reaching out with her hands, desperately searching for something in the never-ending cosmos to giver her life. She finds nothing. Victoria stops breathing, the last image seared onto the back of her eyes being infinite blackness.</p>
<p>Felicity, her elder by five years, was right across the hall. She would enter Victoria’s room and grab her by the shoulders, jolting her up. One year later, shortly after her tenth birthday, doctors would find Victoria suffered from seizures in her sleep.</p>
<p>In her room, Victoria had a large poster of Ziggy Stardust. She deviated from her sisters in her desire to have wild, orange hair, and to dress for church in a turquoise colored skirt. That, however, was improper. The most Victoria had ever gotten away with as a child was painting her nails black.</p>
<p>Her father, the General Robert Byng, was a man of principles, posture, and proper etiquette. He was also more than well acquainted with Kira Wulf, a man who himself took pride in his punctuality, preparedness, and poise under fire in any given social engagement. Kira and Robert were, what people much lower than them in worldly status would refer to as: <em>best friends</em>.</p>
<p>To anyone—even one untrained in the basic art of piecing together people's personalities based on such things as their body language or reaction to corny, overused jokes—the closeness of the two was more than obvious. Given their respective standing, it would have been only natural for one to stab the other in the back and step over their blindsided body to achieve a higher position. The General, a title he acquired through unspoken means at Oasis, and the Chief Security Officer were locked in an undeclared, polite stalemate, one that included biweekly dinners that alternated between their respective residences.</p>
<p>(<em>Even for someone like Arthur a clear picture was painted, and the scene was practically real enough for him to get nearly convinced he’d lived it himself</em>.)</p>
<p>Mr. Wulf and the General were the most esteemed of colleagues, the formality and astuteness never wavering. They bowed and shook hands at the door. Each visit was planned down to every exact minute detail, as was custom for the board meetings men of their stature were accustomed to. Every swipe of cream cheese on a bagel at brunch was calculated and ran by the Accounting department no fewer than three times. It was expected of Victoria to dress up, even though it was an act she always vocally protested and detested. Taking the youngest Byng to church in her Sunday best was an act that required a riot control team.</p>
<p>The Byng household was perfectly modeled, like mannequins from a department store. At the table their elbows never touched the table; there was no slouching. Each course had its own fork. Victoria knew when she was eating too fast, too slow, too much, or not enough. She was held to the highest standard, if only because her elder siblings were better at hiding their transgressions than she was, and were not inclined to share their methodology. Arnold got high in the middle of the night and recited late eighteenth century literature to his frog, Angelo. Felicity had half a dozen unnamed numbers on her phone that she traded explicit photos with. Jupiter passed chemistry in high school despite not remembering the elemental components of water on numerous occasions, while her professor signed his name with a heart on the ‘i’in her yearbook.</p>
<p>Victoria returned to her room every night and would sit in front of her window. She would hold her hand to the glass and look up into the sky and wish under her breath that she could grow up and walk amongst the stars, far above earth and everyone on it. On the other side of the street, behind their first house in Dortmund, was another young girl Victoria’s age. They caught each other stargazing once.</p>
<p>They mirrored each other’s actions—raising one hand then two, bopping the head to one side then the other—as if trying to see if their reflection was real. Upon determining that they both were in fact not figments of the others imagination, they waved. Victoria opened her window to try and say something, but her father had unknowingly entered her room and pulled her back. He shut her window and closed the curtains. She was forbidden from talking to the girl across the street. Even when Victoria peeked through the blinds and tried to find her again, she was never there.</p>
<p>The night before she left for America, Victoria found a silver eagle coin on her window sill. When she held it, flipped it between her fingers, the coin did not feel like it belonged. It possessed a foreign aura, ghostly in nature, as if it was from a different place in time entirely. Victoria kept it on her person every day after.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span class="u">
    <b>December 15</b>
  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Arthur had never before experienced such difficulty in crossing the street. He felt weights, two hundred pound shackles, around his feet. He wasn’t convinced he would be able to overcome them and make it to the other side in a timely fashion.</p>
<p>“This is fucked,” Santiago walked up beside him and rubbed his hands together, “whole goddamn thing man. I’m tellin’ you. Can’t help but shake this feelin’ I got man…”</p>
<p>“What feeling?”</p>
<p>“I don’t wanna say it out loud… put the shit out there.”</p>
<p>“You’re feeling it, so it’s already out there,” said Arthur.</p>
<p>Santiago shook his head. “Nah man. I’ll tell you later, at the show. Not out here. Fuck knows who’s listening.”</p>
<p>At the intersection adjacent to the crosswalk, an eighteen-wheeler from <em>Lazlo’s Refrigerators</em> rear-ended a spotless white mini cooper. As the drivers began to exit their vehicles, Santiago rushed across the street. Arthur brushed the weights aside and followed him.</p>
<p>Health and Wellness operated out of the twenty sixth floor, but Ridgewell had his offices across the street on the basement level of a department store Oasis owned. The first floor, what the customers saw while passing by, harmlessly window-shopping, was a catalogue ripped straight from the seventies: barbecue sets, stainless steel appliances, boxes of knives from Japan, frozen steaks inside portable coolers—<em>70% off</em>—oak cutting boards, ornate chess sets, stereo systems, flatscreen TV’s, portable antique radios—and a myriad of other odds, ends, and knickknacks all 40% off or more if you spent more than seven hundred and fifty dollars. It was an old world buffet.</p>
<p>Arthur could only imagine what would take its place once stock ran out and there were no more stereos and curling irons left. The store could go digital, and then Harold and his Doctors could board up the windows and expand their operation. A notion Arthur figured he wasn’t the first to have. He was usually prone to a little window-shopping himself, but knew better.</p>
<p>Arthur entered the department store and walked behind the cashier area without a single sideways glance from the sharply dressed women in their heels and red lipstick behind the counter. Arthur made his way to the backroom and found two Doctors playing cards.</p>
<p>“<em>Afternoon</em>,” they tipped their hats in unison.</p>
<p>Arthur exited the backroom and into the loading area, which was filled with Joy Doctor brand vans. They were in the process of unloading a delivery. Their patients were herded onto a freight elevator and Arthur was beckoned to join them. He stepped on and squeezed in between the Doctors. The ride down was still and silent.</p>
<p>Ridgewell worked out of the TV room. A wide circular room with television screens that coiled down from the ceiling and wrapped around the entirety of the room. Layers upon layers of digital windows each offering a different viewpoint of the city: alleyways, street corners, underpasses, food trucks, and traffic lights. With a flick of a button the channel changed to a different block, borough, or city altogether.</p>
<p>Arthur could see Ridgewell in the middle of it all, proud as any parent would be at seeing their only child holding a first place triathlon trophy. The Doctors carted their patients off to side-rooms; either handcuffing them to metal tables or chaining them to walls. They were given fistfuls of Blueberry Joy and then left to their own devices.</p>
<p>Arthur stood beside Ridgewell and exhaled.</p>
<p>“CSO break it all down?”</p>
<p>“What would you do if I said no?”</p>
<p>“What would I tell you…” Ridgewell turned “… go back across the street, <em>I suppose</em>.”</p>
<p>“You can’t possibly be bringing the suits over here,” said Arthur.</p>
<p>“I <em>can’t</em>? How about we just stick a pin labeled ‘<em>not yet</em>’ in that, for right now.”</p>
<p>Ridgewell began walking and Arthur followed close behind.</p>
<p>The TV room was nearly pitch black, the only light coming from the television screens.</p>
<p>“This is where we’ll do our reconnaissance. The Oasis Headquarters are too well monitored by interior security for the whistleblower to be operating from within company walls. Our opposition is moving through the city, we need to isolate them,” said Ridgewell.</p>
<p>“<em>Them</em>?”</p>
<p>“The whistleblower isn’t operating without an outside contact.”</p>
<p>“How do you know?”</p>
<p>“Because that would make no rational sense.”</p>
<p>“Perhaps our whistleblower isn’t making use of <em>rational</em> sense,” said Arthur.</p>
<p>Ridgewell stopped. “Explain Hastings.”</p>
<p>“Well that’s why I’m here, right? You’re proceeding with a very basic, simple-minded profile of the whistleblower. Someone who intends to do, with this information that doesn’t have any significant value, us harm by<em> direct </em>means. Leaking it to the press, or handing it to the competition, or giving it to one of the many grieving families currently engaged with lawsuits against us. However, this archaic framing leaves out a much more likely scenario wherein the whistleblower means to simply disrupt the status quo and harm us through <em>indirect </em>means, for either personal gain or good old fashioned pandemonium.”</p>
<p>“You want me to consider we’re dealing with a moron?”</p>
<p>“<em>Yes</em>,” said Arthur.</p>
<p>“Anything else?”</p>
<p>“Yes… don’t rule out the possibility of our, as you put it <em>opposition</em>, making use of the warehouse.”</p>
<p>“Why?”</p>
<p>“There are no longer any cameras in the warehouse, they were removed in accordance with the Weird Warehouse Crew’s request,” said Arthur.</p>
<p>“They made this request when?”</p>
<p>“Yesterday… highly suspicious wouldn’t you say <em>director</em>?”</p>
<p>“Superb work, Mr. Hastings,” Kira Wulf approached and placed an arm around Arthur.</p>
<p>“Of course,” Arthur swallowed heavily, “we can’t start with the Weird Warehouse Crew. That would be too obvious. We need to start somewhere else. I suggest a department close to the warehouse… Marketing perhaps.”</p>
<p>Kira nodded. “<em>Marketing</em> it is then.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. 200 KM/H In the Wrong Lane</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A pair of Doctors bury evidence; Arthur gets a visitor from his past.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u">
    <strong>Send in the Clowns (Arthur)</strong>
  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span class="u">
    <b>Music To Be Buried By Interlude</b>
  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>The hour is almost two in the morning; three minutes away precisely. Two Joy Doctors traverse a winding, unmarked dirt road in the middle of a dense forest. Night has enveloped the world in complete darkness. The headlights on the Doctor’s pickup truck are dim, but just bright enough to guide them to their destination: a tall totem pole.</p>
<p>The Doctors park, turn the lights off, and open their doors. The totem pole depicts animal skulls on each of its eight levels, from the bottom up: a great white shark, crocodile, rat, fox, gorilla, lion, eagle, and a pterodactyl. The first Doctor to exit, Edgar, removes the tarp covering the back of the pickup truck. There are five body bags, two shovels, one lamp, and and a portable radio. The second doctor, Jules, stands in front of the totem pole, perplexed.</p>
<p>“Why the fuck is there a pterodactyl on top of the pole?”</p>
<p>Edgar takes a match from his pocket and lights the lamps; the moon is nowhere to be seen. Edgar maneuvers around the truck and flicks Jules on the back of the head.</p>
<p>“What does it matter?”</p>
<p>“Cause first you got regular animals, right, then this random dinosaur… who made this thing?”</p>
<p>“What does <em>that </em>matter?”</p>
<p>“<em>Somebody’s</em> gotta ask these questions… obviously not gonna be you.”Jules takes the lamp and goes to the back of the truck and takes his shovel.</p>
<p>Edgar looks up at the top of the totem. There is a small pair of yellow eyes looking down at him. He slowly backs up, steps on a branch and cracks it, then an owl takes off from the totem.</p>
<p>“Which one we taking first?”</p>
<p>Edgar looks over the bodies. He takes his own shovel and the portable radio. There are three slim bodies, two women and one man, then 2 heavier male bodies. “Let’s get set up first. Probably gonna be the fat fuckers first, though. Get the backbreaking work done first.”</p>
<p>“Sound, sound.”</p>
<p>Jules and Edgar begin walking. The woods are nearly silent, the only sound coming from the mix of rustling leaves, from above and below—the foliage beneath their feet and the nocturnal predators in the trees above. As they reach the edge of a small hill, below them are two other dim lights spread out in the forest.</p>
<p>“<em>So </em>we’ve got some friends,” Jules sticks the shovel in the dirt and makes a little finger gun gesture against the side of his head.</p>
<p>“I don’t think they’re in our spot.”</p>
<p>“Better not fucking be. I mean to be in and out, quick like.”</p>
<p>“Where the fuck you gotta go at two in the morning.”</p>
<p>Jules picks up his shovel and slings it over his shoulder. “Sleep.”</p>
<p>Edgar shrugs. “And here I thought you were more interesting.”</p>
<p>The Doctors descend the hill and duck under some branches. They come to a stop in the middle of a set of four large oak trees, one of which is just a stump. Jules places the lamp down on the stump, positioning it so to remain steady. Edgar sets the radio down and turns it on.</p>
<p>“<em>Heyo! This is Tommy Heywood comin’ atcha live from Boulder, and I know just what you creatures of the night need to keep—</em>”</p>
<p>Edgar turns the dial, changing the station.</p>
<p>“I <em>like </em>Tommy Heywood…”</p>
<p>Edgar ignores Jules and keeps turning.</p>
<p>“<em>Fill my heart with song and let me sing forevermore. You are all I long for. All I worship and adore—</em>”</p>
<p><em>“So tell me Andre, you’re coming back with a fire on this album, tell the listeners about your process, what was it like coming back from—</em>”</p>
<p>
  <em>“The Hardy Boys, two young—”</em>
</p>
<p>“Man, just pick a goddamn station before I end up getting buried here myself!”</p>
<p>Edgar turns to the very last frequency, 105.7.</p>
<p><em>“How do you do, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Alfred Hitchcock</em>…”</p>
<p>Edgar stands. “Lean back and enjoy yourself.” He pats Jules on the shoulder and begins to make his way back to the truck.</p>
<p>“<em>… until the coroner comes</em>.” Echoes throughout the forest.</p>
<p>Back at the truck, Edgar dumps one of the heavy bodies down on the ground. Jules takes the head, Edgar the legs. They shuffle back to their site and repeat the process three more times. Once for the other heavy body, once for the two women, and a third time so Jules can take the last body, and Edgar can get his cigarettes. With their night’s work laid out before them, Jules takes a few labored breaths while Edgar lights up. He smokes from a pack of <em>Black Licorice </em>brand cigarettes.</p>
<p>The hour reaches three in the morning, and one of the other lamps in the forest is extinguished. A sole doctor passes through their site.</p>
<p>“You out here by yourself Adam?” Edgar offers a cigarette.</p>
<p>Adam nods and takes one. “Yeah,” Edgar gives him a light, “it’s been one ‘a those nights. You just getting started here?”</p>
<p>“Yeah,” Jules takes his shovel and begins digging.</p>
<p>“You hear that got a fucking mole back in New York?” Adam takes a drag.</p>
<p>“Yeah… from…” Edgar kicks the slim male body “… from this fucking guy right? I think it was this fucking guy that squealed.”</p>
<p>Jules stops digging. “I don’t think it was that guy.”</p>
<p>“You sure?”</p>
<p>“Doesn’t matter,” Adam begins walking back the way they came, “have a pleasant evening gentlemen, let the fucking day-walkers figure out who’s who, that said what, when, where, why, and fuck knows how.”</p>
<p>Edgar stamps out his cigarette and begins digging alongside Jules.</p>
<p>“What’s his name?”</p>
<p>Jules stops. “Who the hell are you on about now?”</p>
<p>“The sleeping with the fishes guy.”</p>
<p>“The what?”</p>
<p>Edgar sets his shovel in the dirt. “The sleeping with the fishes guy, come on don’t you watch gangster movies? Pacino and De Niro and Brando… <em>come on</em>.”</p>
<p>“Man you always pick the absolute worst times to do trivia.” Jules resumes digging.</p>
<p>“Alright, fine. Be that way, but I know you know.” Edgar picks up his shovel and continues to dig as well.</p>
<p>Jules sighs. “It was Luca Brasi…”</p>
<p>“Ha! I knew it.”</p>
<p>The Doctors continue to dig. The radio sets on another track.</p>
<p>
  <em>“Black magic, night walker. She haunts me like no other…”</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span class="u">
    <b>December 15</b>
  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Arthur arrived back at his apartment at a quarter past seven in the evening. The Marketing department would be the first on the block, bright and early at nine the following morning, so it was decreed by Kira Wulf. Ridgewell had looked just a few seconds shy of tearing Arthur’s tongue out with a pair of chopsticks. Arthur got a feeling he imagined was similar to the one Santiago had at the crosswalk. Only Arthur wasn't so superstitious as to be afraid of identifying it. Not openly, anyway.</p>
<p>It felt like they were being setup. Like the entire narrative was a scheme; a game concocted by Management and facilitated by Kira for sport. Arthur immediately took a Blackberry Joy, as that notion was utterly preposterous, and served no purpose other than to sow doubt in Oasis leadership. The pill went down quickly and cleanly. Arthur removed his face mask and cap, then laid them down on his bed. He went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. Arthur looked into his own eyes and saw them turn purple. He blinked rapidly a few times and they returned to normal.</p>
<p>There was a loud, brute knocking at his door that didn’t stop. As Arthur walked to the door, he took hold of his truncheon and briefly envisioned bashing the brains of the person behind the obnoxious ruckus into grey paste. He quickly tossed the truncheon on the couch before answering the door so as to avoid this.</p>
<p>Arthur opened the door. “<em>Hello Rachel</em>,” he droned.</p>
<p>The woman that was formerly Rachel Hastings looked up at him with blank, white eyes. Her lips were chapped, her hair was up in a bun—which he always thought looked hideous—and she was wearing two different colored socks. Arthur twitched. He snapped his fingers in front of Rachel and she seemingly rebooted herself.</p>
<p>“Don’t snap at me.”</p>
<p>“You were in a daze, <em>darling</em>.”</p>
<p>“Don’t<em> darling</em> me, either.”</p>
<p>Arthur looked out into the hall and saw Tyreen spinning herself in circles. She motioned to the large, red headphones she was wearing. “<em>Black magic, dark water. Surrounds me like no other. She’s got my heart in chains</em>,” Tyreen sung loudly and purposefully off beat.</p>
<p>Rachel rolled her eyes. “Do you have any water?”</p>
<p>“No,” said Arthur dryly.</p>
<p>“You <em>don’t</em> have water?”</p>
<p>“You’re repeating yourself, how much Joy have you had today?”</p>
<p>“Fuck off, Arthur, I have a splitting headache,” said Rachel.</p>
<p>“<em>Aw</em>… too bad. But you’ve done your job. Got her here without anymore…”</p>
<p>“Arthur I’ll kill you.”</p>
<p>“… <em>oh</em>… I wouldn’t let you.” Arthur looked down at Rachel and considered how long it would take to dash and get his truncheon.</p>
<p>Tyreen rolled up in between them and slid inside. “Bye mom, see ya tomorrow.”</p>
<p>Rachel left and stormed down the hall.</p>
<p>Arthur shut the door and locked it.</p>
<p>“Did your mother take her Joy today?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know.”</p>
<p>“<em>Tyreen</em>.”</p>
<p>“Don’t involve me, I’m invisible.” Tyreen threw herself on the couch and picked up Arthur’s truncheon.</p>
<p>“Just don’t giver her any of yours.”</p>
<p>“I wouldn’t.”</p>
<p>“Good.” Arthur gave her a kiss on the forehead.</p>
<p>As he went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, he heard Tyreen turn the TV on.</p>
<p><em>“Welly, welly, welly, well, we’re back…</em>”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. They Went That-a-Way</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Arthur gets to work doing reconnaissance.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u">
    <b>Send in the Clowns (Arthur)</b>
  </span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span class="u">
    <b>December 16</b>
  </span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“<em>What happened</em>?” Ridgewell sounded irritated on the other line.</p><p>Arthur stood in the northwest stairwell of The Standard, High Line hotel. Positioned in between the forth and fifth floors were eight Joy Doctors. They were all looking down at the headless body that had just collided with the floor. Arthur was looking up at the Joy Doctor holding the severed head in one hand and a bloody machete in the other.</p><p>“Mr. Ward took a slip…” Arthur paused. He motioned quickly for some of the Joy Doctors to rush down and secure the area.</p><p>“<em>What kind of slip?</em>”</p><p>“The kind that comes with an indefinite vacation to Cuba.”</p><p>There was silence on the other line. Dennis Ward was a new hire, he hadn’t settled a permanent residence yet, so Oasis was putting him up in The Standard. His head passed by Arthur as it dropped down to the bottom of the stairwell.</p><p>“<em>Goddamnit Arthur</em>.” The line was cut.</p><p>Arthur closed his phone. Two Joy Doctors barred the door that led into the stairwell from the lobby. Arthur looked up.</p><p>“What the fuck?!”</p><p>The Joy Doctor on the seventh floor shrugged. “He spooked me. Wasn’t supposed to be here… fucker left <em>everyday</em> before nine. <em>Oh well</em>…”</p><p>Arthur ascended the stairs with the remaining Doctors. They stepped out onto the seventh floor and entered Ward’s room.</p><p>“Was there anyone staying with him?” The Doctor with the machete, Andy, asked why surveying the room’s bar.</p><p>“He asks <em>now</em>, that we’re already inside.” Arthur let out an exasperated sigh. “Let’s sweep the place and hope for the best.”</p><p>Andy continued to scope out the bar, making note of all the empty and overturned bottles. Weaver went with Arthur into the main bedroom. D’Angelo and Markette took the bathroom and the closet. Weis stood watch at the door. Leo and Bernard swept the balcony.</p><p>“Take his laptop,” said Arthur.</p><p>Weaver collected it, as well as several folders and binders branded with the Oasis Owl.</p><p>D’Angelo whistled from the bathroom.</p><p>Arthur rushed inside. There were a dozen unopened bottles filled with Vanilla Joy.</p><p>“What in the goddamn…”</p><p>“Looks like the old boy had a wicked fuckin’ habit,” said Markette, “<em>or </em>a quaint side hustle.”</p><p>“Bag ‘em,” said Arthur, “we’re gone in five.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>It was noon by the time they got to the Pier 25 Marina. Vic Haze—along with the recently destined for Cuba on a much needed company paid holiday—were a part of the Telemarketing team at Oasis. Arthur and the Doctors boarded his vessel, <em>The Fragile Ballerina</em>.</p><p>“Mr. Haze is usually in the office until four, then he comes down here,” said Arthur.</p><p>“<em>Yeah</em>…” Barry did a once over on the other boats; checking for nosy neighbors. “… what’s he get up to?”</p><p>Arthur unlocked the door below deck. He’d been given a copy from Ridgewell, who kept very well organized records of all the locks presided over by Oasis employees. House keys, backyard shed keys, safety deposit boxes, PO Boxes, safes under the bed and behind the fireplace, diaries, boats, cars, and above all medicine cabinets. There wasn’t a single place Ridgewell, and by extension Arthur and his crew, couldn’t get in.</p><p>Arthur, Barry, Markette, and Weis entered below deck. There was a small kitchen area, with an antipasto spread half wrapped in plastic laid out. Two empty bottles of champagne in a bucket of lukewarm water were on the coffee table. Sprawled across the couch in the back was an unresponsive prostitute.</p><p>“Is she dead?” Asked Weis.</p><p>Arthur tapped Markette, and the Doctor crept forward. He approached the prostitute, cracked his knuckles, and got to work. He hummed quietly to himself. “<em>And I grew strong. And I learned how to get along</em>.”</p><p>Markette checked the prostitute’s arms and legs for puncture marks. Her skin was painted blue, but she was sweating and the color was starting to come off. It smudged and got on Markette’s gloves. He spread her legs and checked the inside of her thighs and found two injection sites.</p><p>“We’ve got a biter… find the needle for me chaps.”</p><p>Arthur, Weis, and Barry spread out.</p><p>Markette continued. He took out a stethoscope from around his neck and began feeling her chest. “<em>And so you're back. From outer space</em>…” He felt a faint pulse, and checked her neck to confirm. Markette opened her mouth and checked the inside. Apart from a lack of proper brushing, and being in dire need of a mint, everything was a-okay.</p><p>“<em>I just walked in to find you here with that sad look upon your face</em>.” Markette opened her eyes and they were cracked with yellow and purple lines. Her pupils were so tiny he could barely see them. “We’ve got a goddamn Downer here gents… look for an orange rocket ship.”</p><p>Markette took a little flashlight from his pocket and flashed it in her eyes. He checked in her ears and up her nose, looking for blood, and found none. “<em>If I'd known for just one second you'd be back to bother me</em>.”</p><p>Barry came over with a bottle in the shape of an orange rocket ship. It almost looked like a keychain to the untrained eye.</p><p>“Sunshine overdose,” said Markette, “she’s still alive, but her circuits might be fried to shit. Don’t know who the fuck she needed to fool, you’d only need this much to get past Ridgewell.”</p><p>Arthur walked over and Markette handed him the empty rocket ship. “Sunshine’s illegal, looks like Mr. Haze is gonna have quite an eventful evening.”</p><p>“You want me to call Ridgewell?” Asked Barry.</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>“And ol’ Vic’s wife?”</p><p>“… <em>yeah</em>.”</p><p>Barry left to make the calls.</p><p>“What about her?” Asked Markette.</p><p>“What’s the nearest hospital?”</p><p>“NYU medical center, but they won’t know what to do with her.”</p><p>“And who will?”</p><p>“<em>We </em>will,” said Markette.</p><p>“Then I’m placing her in your care. We’re moving on to Snedens Landing, mansion in the Palisades. Meet up with us if you can.”</p><p>Arthur and Weis went back up to the top deck.</p><p>“We in the business of keeping whores from OD’ing now?” Asked Weis.</p><p>“Maybe she knows something,” said Arthur.</p><p>“<em>Maybe</em>… keep your head on straight Hastings.”</p><p>“Wouldn't want to trip, will do.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The residence of Marshall Glass—Executive Vice President of Branding—was covered in mist. It was three in the afternoon and the nanny had just brought Marshall Junior and Penelope home from middle school.</p><p>“Fuck we gonna do about the kids?” Asked Andy.</p><p>“We tend to scare the little shits,” said Conor.</p><p>They were parked about a hundred feet from the mansion, off the road, the van hidden behind some thick trees.</p><p>Arthur held up a finger to silence the rabble, as he was on the phone.</p><p>“<em>Things aren’t looking promising on your end, Hastings.</em>” Ridgewell’s glee was almost pungent enough to make Arthur gag.</p><p>“Meaning leads have turned up elsewhere?”</p><p>“<em>Quite possibly. We have a few candidates to be brought in later today for a fireside chat.</em>”</p><p>“I’ve got one last avenue to turn down after we’re done with Glass,” said Arthur.</p><p>“<em>No you don’t. Glass is the last one on your list.”</em></p><p>“You’ve got to learn to be more flexible, Harold…”</p><p>“<em>What the fuck are you—”</em></p><p>“I’ll give you the number for a pilates class.”</p><p>Arthur hung up. He took in a large breath, held it for five seconds, then exhaled.</p><p>“So what’s the play?” Asked Weaver.</p><p>“You and Bernard come with me, we’re gonna take the van and make a distraction. Rest of you stay and wait, you’ll know it when it happens, then search the place top to bottom. Key areas are the office adjacent to the master bedroom, the office in the basement, off the garage, and the attic.”</p><p>Arthur and Weaver got in the back of the van, Bernard drove.</p><p>“We fixin’ to light something on fire?” Weaver flicked his lighter.</p><p>“No. We’re going to the warehouse.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Back at Oasis, Bernard stayed with the van. Arthur and Weaver took the elevator up to Marketing, the tenth floor. The time was a quarter after five.</p><p>“I need you to find Glass. Tell him he’s doing such an outstanding job, Management wants him to take his family out to dinner on the company card,” said Arthur.</p><p>“<em>Right</em>…”</p><p>“And if anyone asks you something stupid, say Kira Wulf has made it gospel.”</p><p>“You don’t think that’s cause to have us strung up by our balls and skinned alive?”</p><p>“<em>No</em>. Make sure Glass leaves immediately, tell him he has a reservation at DORSiA.”</p><p>“That a real place?”</p><p>“Yeah. Italian joint in Boca Ratan. Just opened a location here in the Theater District. Very high wait list. Very expensive veal parmigiana. Sixty five dollars a plate, great for the family,” said Arthur.</p><p>“How the fuck you know all this?”</p><p>The elevator doors opened.</p><p>“It’s all about being flexible, Weaver. You square that all away, then come get me from the warehouse.”</p><p>“And if I can’t find you?”</p><p>“Gas the fuckin’ place, bury my remains somewhere on the moon.”</p><p>Arthur and Weaver separated. As he made his way through the Marketing offices, he saw Vic Haze’s office being cleared out by a pair of Doctors.</p><p>Arthur took the side stairwell down to the warehouse. He exited and found himself up on some scaffolding. He carefully climbed down via a series of ladders. The warehouse was a seemingly infinite space, with wooden crates of various shapes and sizes stacked all the way to the ceiling on blue metal shelves. Wide, round lights hung down, but only one was turned on; the warehouse was dark. The blaring white light illuminated the ground where Arthur placed both his feet after exiting the scaffolding, as well as the front of the small office space in the warehouse.</p><p>There was a heavyset man drinking a can of cola in a forklift to Arthur’s right. Two thin as twigs women emerged from the shadows on his left. There were many faces lurking in cracks and crevices Arthur couldn’t quite make out, watching his advance. The warehouse crew wore face masks, but they only had access to the discolored, broken, or altogether disfigured ones none of the suits wanted to don.</p><p>“<em>Son</em>,” the heavyset man with the cola moved the forklift forward, “mind telling me what a Bobby is doin’ down here, end of the day.” The heavyset man’s face mask only had one open eye hole, his lips on the right side were crushed together, and the nose was pig-like.</p><p>“Gotta talk with Vivienne. She in?”</p><p>“<em>That depends</em>,” the two slim women stepped into the light. “What do you need her for?” They spoke in unison, each wearing one half of the same face mask.</p><p>“Well if when we’re done chatting, she chooses to tell you, then you’ll know.”Arthur felt a presence drop down behind him. “How y’all wanna play this?”</p><p>The presence drew near, getting close enough that Arthur could feel its breath on his nape. Arthur immediately drew his truncheon and evaded. He reached for the body behind him and latched onto its neck. He lifted one of the warehouse crew into the air—a short woman with an entirely red face mask.</p><p>At once all the lights in the warehouse turned on. Arthur was surrounded by what looked like the entire Weird Warehouse Crew. All one hundred and forty members.</p><p>“Seems we’ve got ourselves a goddamn Mexican standoff.” Arthur tightened his grip.</p><p>“<em>Put</em>… <em>me down</em>… <em>Bobby</em>,” the woman with the red mask croaked.</p><p>Arthur heard the stairwell door open. “Weaver?”</p><p>“<em>Yeah</em>… I found Markette.”</p><p>“Well the party can always get bigger,” said Arthur. He looked around at the Weird Warehouse Crew. “So where the fuck’s Vivienne?” He dropped the woman with the red mask and she scurried away.</p><p>“She’s not here,” said the heavyset man.</p><p>“Can I put in a message?”</p><p>“<em>Shoot</em>.”</p><p>“It’d be awful nice to see her, is all. Damn near forgot what she looked like.”</p><p>“After what you Bobbies did to her sisters,” the woman with the red mask got to her feet, “you come down here to jest and mock.”</p><p>“We <em>Bobbies </em>didn't do anything. Nimue was selling Joy out of the loading dock…”</p><p>“We know what you did!”</p><p>“And Morgause is up at Seaside, in Connecticut—”</p><p>“In a sanitarium that doesn’t exit!”</p><p>“<em>Sure</em> it does.”</p><p>“Seaside closed forty years ago!”</p><p>“Oasis doesn’t fork out seventy three grand a month to put someone up in a place that’s been closed for forty years. You have a formal complaint to resister? I suggest you take it up with the Dispute department on level twenty two.”</p><p>Arthur began to back away, towards the ladder. Markette stood alone at the top of the scaffolding, the door to the stairwell was open.</p><p>The woman in the red mask did not follow. Row by row the lights began to shut off.</p><p>“<em>You</em> <em>Bobbies</em>…” she growled “… tortured them. Raped them. Then you left them to die. We don’t forget… <em>down here</em>.”</p><p>The final light shut off just as Arthur reached Markette. He could hear the heavy ‘<em>thud thud’</em> of wellingtons echoing in the stairwell.</p><p>“Cavalry?”</p><p>“Kinda glad we don’t need ‘em,” said Markette.</p><p>Arthur and Markette ascended the stairwell, meeting Weaver and fifteen Joy Doctors on the way.</p><p>“<em>Ah</em>…” One of the Doctors was visibly disappointed. “… never get to do anything fun around here.”</p><p>“Get what you were looking for?” Asked Weaver.</p><p>“No. So we were never here… <em>copasetic</em>?”</p><p>“Yeah,” said Weaver.</p><p>“<em>Copasetic</em>,” said Markette.</p><p>“Alright, let’s go pick up the others.”</p><p>They left Oasis. Weaver took over driving duties, Bernard rode shotgun. Markette sat in the back with Arthur.</p><p>“Girl from the boat might actually remember how to brush her teeth,” said Markette.</p><p>“<em>Hail</em>.”</p><p>“What was that woman on about in the warehouse?”</p><p>“Don’t remember,” said Arthur.</p><p>“What she said? About Vivienne’s sisters?”</p><p>“Ask Management.”</p><p>“That mean it’s true?”</p><p>“It means<em> I </em>wasn’t there.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. It's A Funny World We Live In</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Arthur interrogates some witnesses; features his third set at the Hippo.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u">
    <b>Send in the Clowns (Arthur)</b>
  </span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span class="u">
    <strong>December 16</strong>
  </span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Arthur returnedto the TV room at exactly seven o’clock. He went live at The Hippo Club in four hours: eleven sharp. There was a skeleton crew left behind; Ridgewell and four other Doctors. The only members of Arthur’s team that went with him for the debrief were Markette and Barry.</p><p>“You return with nothing, Hastings,” said Ridgewell.</p><p>“Day’s not over yet.” Arthur moved past him. Two side rooms were lit up.</p><p>“Boyle and Saul. Aquatinted with them?”</p><p>“Enough to know if either is lying…”</p><p>“Was that a question, Hastings?”</p><p>“No. I’ll handle them,” said Arthur.</p><p>Ridgewell laughed. He positioned himself shoulder to shoulder with Arthur. “Mr. Wulf’s generosity is finite, you know that.”</p><p>“Was <em>that </em>a question, <em>Harold</em>?”</p><p>“If this thing with the Weird Warehouse Crew doesn’t pan out, <em>you’re</em> the one that wasted everybody’s time.”</p><p>“Why don’t you go have a chat with them down there, Harold. They’re <em>very</em> accommodating.” Arthur choose to interrogate Byron Saul first.</p><p>He entered the eggshell colored room and found Byron with his head down on the metal table, drool pooling from his mouth; fast asleep. Arthur sat down opposite him and banged his fist down on the table, jolting Byron awake.</p><p>“Shift’s long past over, Byron.”</p><p>“Arthur?”</p><p>“Let’s make this quick, yeah.”</p><p>“The fuck’s going on? I thought Health and Wellness was on the twenty sixth… and what the fuck… why does my jaw hurt…” Byron went to reach for his mouth but found his hands chained to the table. “<em>Arthur</em>… I swear to God man I only took that stapler home with me cause Jeffery needed me to—”</p><p>“Byron!”</p><p>“W-What?”</p><p>“Shut the fuck up. Answer <em>only </em>what I ask you.”</p><p>Byron gulped, sweat pouring down his neck, and began to nervously rub the tips of his fingers together. “You’re not gonna let them get me, right man? Come on Arthur we’re fuckin’ buds, we got to Tito’s together—”</p><p>Arthur leaned forward in his chair, his eyes dead and firmly locked on Byron. “You work in Mergers, Byron—”</p><p>“Yes! <em>Yes</em>, I do, been with Oasis for—”</p><p>“<em>That </em>wasn't the question.” Arthur brought his truncheon up to the table; Byron recoiled slightly. “We were only supposed to be looking at Marketing today. How’d you get twisted up in this scene?”</p><p>“Oh fuck me man…” Byron started shaking.</p><p>Arthur lunged across the table and grabbed Byron by his collar. “You have no idea how much worse this can get for you…” On cue, a Doctor slowly peeked in through the door and revved up his saw.</p><p>“<em>Good evening</em>,” said the Doctor.</p><p>Byron shrieked and Arthur immediately went to close the door.</p><p>Byron settled into his seat and began taking short, quick breaths. “I was just fuckin’ talking to Stella, man. You know, she’s kinda cute, works right next to Boyle. She’s got really big tits—”</p><p>“And you didn't think to say anything to the Doctors dragging you away?”</p><p>“I mean… isn’t Health and Wellness supposed to offer like, hot stone massages and shit like that?”</p><p>“<em>Byron</em>…”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“You’re retarded.”</p><p>“Does… does that mean I can go?”</p><p>Arthur opened the door. The same Doctor was there waiting, saw ready, and Arthur pushed him aside. “Byron doesn’t work in Marketing, <em>Harold</em>.”</p><p>“Meaning…”</p><p>“<em>Meaning</em> he doesn’t even know we fucking HAVE a warehouse. He’s a fucking suit that lives inside Jeffery Castion’s asshole. We go to Tito’s sometimes. If we find out the whistleblower is somehow related to fucking your Uncle fucking Tito, <em>then</em> you can bring him in!”</p><p>Arthur stormed into Sally Boyle’s interrogation room. He locked the door behind him. Arthur looked at Sally and she wasn’t wearing her face mask. She had a wide, ear to ear smile across her face, like she was a kid at the fair.</p><p>“<em>Little Artie</em>?” Sally’s eyes were completely red, almost as if filled with blood.</p><p>“<em>How</em>… How much Joy have you had today, Sally?”</p><p>“Whatever it says on the bottle I get from the pharmacy.”</p><p>“And… what <em>does </em>it say on the bottle?”</p><p>“Two strawberry Joy once a day.”</p><p>Arthur sat down opposite Sally. She didn't seem to be aware of the constraints around her wrists. “<em>Sally</em>…”</p><p>“You look different Artie.”</p><p>“I do?”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>“What specifically?”</p><p>“I’m not quite sure. Maybe it’s your hair. You doin’ something different with it?”</p><p>“I don't think so,” said Arthur. He felt his hair and it was soaked with sweat.</p><p>“Well then maybe you got taller.”</p><p>Arthur removed his face mask and took a deep breath. “Have you noticed anything strange around the office Sally?”</p><p>“Define strange, please.”</p><p>“Unusual or surprising in a way that is unsettling or hard to understand.”</p><p>“And in the context of what you’re looking for?”</p><p>“Something you don’t ordinarily see in your day to day at the office. Anything truly bizarre like… someone coming in with a spiked, neon green mohawk. Or, I don’t know, an alien walking through the office with its cock out.”</p><p>Sally giggled, covered her mouth, then began to blush.</p><p>“<em>Oh</em> Artie…”</p><p>Arthur cracked a small smile himself. “<em>Please</em>, Sally, I know it’s been a while since we’ve seen each other.”</p><p>“Oh, don't worry, I see you all the time. You and the other Bobbies pass through from time to time and I wave, but you’re often in a hurry and don’t see me. It’s okay. You’re all very busy. Let’s see if I remember the last time we sat down and had a drink… I think it was at your brother’s barbecue. How is Percy?”</p><p>Arthur’s left eye twitched. He put his face mask back on. “Just <em>peachy</em>. I’ll let him know you asked about him.”</p><p>“That’s good, you two were always so close. And you know, the more I’ve had time to think about it, I’m sorry to say I don’t think I’ve seen anything too out of the ordinary. No green hair or…” she giggled again “… <em>alien cocks</em>.”</p><p>“What about the Weird Warehouse Crew?”</p><p>“The what?” Sally’s smile slightly drooped.</p><p>“Heard anything from the warehouse lately?”</p><p>“No…” Her eyes briefly darted around the room. “… can’t say that I have.”</p><p>“<em>Okay</em>,” Arthur stood up, “that’ll be all then, Sally. Have a nice night.”</p><p>“Same to you Artie. Say, what’s the name of that club of yours?”</p><p>“The Hippo Club.”</p><p>“Mind if I stop by some time?”</p><p>“<em>No</em>… not at all.” Arthur left Sally’s room. Ridgewell was the only one remaining in the TV room.</p><p>“What’s the word?”</p><p>“Second I mentioned the warehouse she just about jumped out of her own skin,” said Arthur.</p><p>“Well fuck me sideways.”</p><p>“I’ll pass. How much Joy did you give her?”</p><p>“On the way here? None,” said Ridgewell.</p><p>“It’s a goddamn miracle she could even remember her own name. If you didn't give her anything, I’d suggest checking her prescription. Something’s off with her.”</p><p>“We still need to make the connection with the Weird Warehouse Crew.”</p><p>“To do that, either <em>we</em> need to find Vivienne, or she does.”</p><p>“I can't imagine that'll be so hard,” said Ridgewell.</p><p>“We’re better off cutting Sally loose.”</p><p>“<em>Hmph.</em> You Bobbies never did mix with those sisters.”</p><p>“Fuck off. You gonna tell me Seaside is closed too?”</p><p>“No. You already know it is.”</p><p>“<em>Goodnight </em>Harold. My job’s done,” said Arthur. He walked over and entered the freight elevator.</p><p>Ridgewell entered beside him. “You’re forgetting something Hastings.”</p><p>“So are you.”</p><p>“You said it yourself, Boyle is practically a fucking turnip. She can wait. This won’t take long.”</p><p>“You interviewing me now?”</p><p>The elevator began its ascent.</p><p>“Management needs <em>everyone </em>cleared.”</p><p>“Does that eventually include you?”</p><p>“<em>Eventually</em>,” said Ridgewell. “I don’t know why you declined my offer, Hastings, but it’s obvious to me that you’re not a man that has any worldly value for money. While I can't quite wrap my head around that, I suppose I should at least respect you for it. So, here’s how this whole fucking thing is going to play out. At some point or another, Anton Verloc is going to be revealed as the whistleblower and you’re going to kill him.”</p><p>Arthur remained silent.</p><p>“You see, there’s two key reasons I know you'll be on board with this. The first being you are a conniving little rat, <em>but</em>, one ruled by its instincts. Right now you're assessing which way the wind is blowing and all that goose shit. This isn't just the best play, but the <em>only</em> one. Anton might as well be fucking dead already, because even though the disdain we share for one another is fairly obvious, you must at least know that when <em>I </em>say someone is dead, it’s not a thinly veiled threat worth about as much as cold piss in the wind. It is fact,” said Ridgewell.</p><p>“What’s the second reason?”</p><p>“Simple. <em>You</em> don’t like Anton either.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span class="u">
    <b>Set 3 Interlude</b>
    <b>: Ms. Maelstrom</b>
  </span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“I first remember seeing you, Lady Avarice, when I was thirteen. Had been for about three months and I thought it was the coolest fucking thing on earth, like it’d only ever happened to me. <em>I</em> discovered what it was like to be thirteen. I’ll admit though I can't remember what I looked like back then. Not a single picture survived the fire… though I suppose that means it did its job.</p><p>At the time I assumed you were the same age, and if you were older, you at least played the part of a thirteen year old well enough. I really would've talked to just about anyone, though. Anyone I thought would listen and follow me up to my attic and watch the video I’d taken of my next door neighbor, Heather, masturbating. It was a shitty camera—even though I detest the adjective it’s all I can conjure up at the moment. <em>Shitty</em>. It had a stand like the ones I figure people who know what the fuck they’re doing use to make movies. It’s been about a decade since I saw one. Don’t know what they’d even be about at this stage.</p><p>The camera had a stand, but the damn thing was always wobbly. There was probably a piece missing or whoever screwed everything into place wasn't paying attention. Though that may very well have been me, so I suppose I shouldn’t be so quick to make assumptions. Whenever I filmed something my shoulder carried the weight. It wasn't that bad, I got some of my best shots that way. Of course that old camera is long gone. I was instructed to get rid of it after the fire… it was the only thing to have survived. I did keep the film, however, which was very improper of me. It can't harm anyone, though, at least not anymore.</p><p>Heather certainly wouldn't mind. She didn't care the first time. She didn't see me, or so I thought. She could have. Maybe she could only get off if there was an audience gazing at her. The color of her hair was light brown, almost blonde. It was long and straight, she was always blowing it out of her face.</p><p>I filmed her sitting on her kitchen table. It was a fake, stylized piece of wood that reflected the bright, crystal lights from the chandelier above. Heather wasn’t using a toy, she was knuckle deep with her right hand, and in her left she had a butter knife covered in creamy peanut butter. The kind you smooth out on a cracker and eat when you don’t have bread and not enough jelly. The extra salty brand because the crackers have none. Heather had this kind of repulsed look on her face. She didn't like her own behavior. She felt she was naughty. Had the word tattooed just below her bellybutton. Maybe she just wanted someone to come over and punish her.</p><p>I can't remember if I killed her or not. I might have put a toaster in her bathtub. Maybe held her under the water, pinched her nose shut, and drowned her. She seemed like she might’ve even enjoyed that. I could've pressed my thumbs into her clear blue eyes and watched her wriggle… she seemed like the sort that would. When she came all over her kitchen table her body quivered and shook, and I think she fell asleep right there, jar of peanut butter still out and open.</p><p>I think she tried to poison me. Heather seemed the poisoning type. I think she sent anthrax to a couple of suits out in Washington. This was after she got her bellybutton pierced, which ruined the whole image I’d constructed of her. That hideous, yellow butterfly in her naval disgusted me the same way a centipede would if one ever had the gall to find its way into my frosted oats cereal. I definitely think I killed her. I put a plastic bag over her head and threw the ham, Swiss, and lettuce sandwich that was previously inside it away. Everything about her was sour.</p><p>Selling Joy is a hell of a thing. Its costs a different amount for everyone. Nobody pays the same, and I’m not talking about money. Think about taking your daily dose of <em>Happiness™</em> as swallowing tiny, strawberry flavored leeches. They take something from you, because you can't have carefree pleasure and only give up a stack of colored paper. I genuinely believe that Oasis views money as being the next thing below worthless; it holds a negative value. They have enough to dump a truck load in front of you and light it on fire.</p><p>What Joy takes from me, like it does most people, is the ability to recall. Joy is overriding my memory and slowly deleting everything… an edible lobotomy. So talking about things up here in these sets is what keeps my memories alive, because I don't have the camera anymore. I once encountered a woman who was riding towards a similar destination. She called herself Ms. Maelstrom, and she was the fruitiest fucking spook I’ve ever seen in my entire goddamn life. She took pictures, and the pain in those photographs was like nothing I’ve ever felt before.</p><p>I saw people try and interpret them, because she was dumb enough to put them on display for the entire entitled world to see. The arrogance of these bystanders… these fucking pelicans was truly a mind-bending sight. These people would try to find the meaning of life and the secret of immortality in an image of two squirrels fucking. Nothing can ever simply <em>be</em>—no. It all has to mean something in this greater picture—this circle of life. I found it all so sickening. Maybe that’s just because I knew what was <em>really</em> behind the scenes. Where the pelican sees a trio of beer bottles lined up on a junk car at a scrapyard… I see the car crusher covered in blood, and the beer needed to make cleaning the fucking thing more tolerable.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. In One Car</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Arthur prepares with his troupe before their big night at The Hippo Club.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u">
    <b>Send in the Clowns (Arthur)</b>
  </span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span class="u"> <b>December 16</b> </span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“<em>I like to start out every set</em>…” Arthur’s train of thought stalled on the tracks. He resisted the urge to lick his lips, as the green face paint he had delicately applied to them was still fresh. He was in the <em>Delirious</em> dressing room at The Hippo Club—the one that once upon a time had been used by the one and only Eddie Murphy and his entourage. Arthur sat at his vanity, which was lit up and had little green and red Christmas tree lights hung around it. The stocking that hung down from the top of the vanity was labeled: <em>Mr. Monster</em>.</p><p>Arthur was joined by the rest of his troupe. To his left was Zane. The Irishman gripped a tiny brush and applied a touch of orange around his eyes. “You talkin’ to yourself again boyo?”</p><p>Arthur looked down at his notepad—black composition, 240 pages—which was filled with pulp ramblings, mathematical equations denoting the exact amount of time to wait before landing the punchline, dollar store synonyms, bits of stories he’d heard people tell on the subway, and a list of off-kilter shoutouts. “No… just reading.”</p><p>“Well what’re you running with?”</p><p>“I don't know.”</p><p>“Whaddya mean you <em>‘don’t know’</em>? We’re live in a pint.”</p><p>“In New York time?”</p><p>“Fifteen, kids,” came Buschwick’s voice from the door.</p><p>“Thanks mum,” said Zane.</p><p>There was a quick snort and the door to the dressing room closed.</p><p>“I was gonna go with the barbecue bit,” Arthur flipped through several pages, “but I’m having second thoughts…” He took a glob of white face paint and began smearing it across his forehead.</p><p>“Ya got no finesse, Arthur.”</p><p>“Well I’m not entering a bloody beauty pageant…” Arthur flipped the page “… <em>you cunt</em>.”</p><p>Arthur leaned down to his right and whispered to Megan. “<em>Pardon my French</em>.”</p><p>Megan—the only <em>clean </em>act out of the troupe—smiled wide. She had just finished powdering her nose and was in the process of applying a bright red color to her lips. “You’re a doll, Arthur,” she said. Megan’s eyes—complete with long, fake eye lashes— were surrounded by a dark, black shadow.</p><p>Arthur lingered on Megan’s reflection in her mirror. “You always get here before everyone else,” he said.</p><p>“Well, Zane’s right, you just make yourself whiter,” Megan smacked her lips and took Arthur’s face in her hand, “<em>so sloppily</em>.” Megan began smoothing out the paint on Arthur’s forehead. “Then this stuff gets in your creases and you don't wash it out properly and all those nasty chemicals… <em>bleh</em>. Ruins your skin.”</p><p>“And you're just so <em>smooth</em>…”</p><p>Zane coughed loudly.</p><p>Megan titled her head and examined her work. “I know you don't live in Babylon, Arthur, show up early next time and I can help you.”</p><p>“I would appreciate that.”</p><p>Zane coughed again.</p><p>“Shut the fuck up!” Bellowed Petyr.</p><p>Megan met Arthur’s gaze in her mirror and fluttered her eye lashes.</p><p>He leaned in close to her.</p><p>“<em>Are we still on for dinner?</em>” She asked, getting more lipstick.</p><p>Arthur nodded.</p><p>Megan, satisfied with her color, smacked her lips again. “<em>Perfect</em>,” she winked.</p><p>Arthur returned to his mirror and began touching up his nose.</p><p>Santiago, to the right of Megan, produced a scratched, silver bottle of Casa Dragones from the vanity drawer by his leg. “Who will join me?” Santiago had black lines in a zigzag pattern breaking apart the white paint on his face.</p><p>“That’s for sipping, <em>amigo</em>,” said Zane, “you’d have to be one uncivilized bastard to…”</p><p>Santiago took out eight shot glasses. “Should I start pouring then?”</p><p>“<em>Ah</em>… get on with it,” Zane shook his head, but accepted a glass filled to the brim with tequila nonetheless.</p><p>“To what do we toast, tonight?” Ed—the opening act—raised his glass. His face was completely yellow.</p><p>“A sold out house,” said Cassie—her pigtails an alarming pink—who, as per usual, was already two beers, a fifth of vodka, and three quarters of Jack into the night.</p><p>“I will raise to that,” said Petyr, who had painted two diamonds over his eyes—one red and one blue.</p><p>“To a sold out house, then,” said Ed.</p><p>Everyone drank. The tequila was sharp and stung the back of Arthur’s throat. It lingered a little afterwards and made him want to spit.</p><p>“That is some vile shit,” said Natalie, the Mime. She was barely an even five feet and was massaging her throat, trying to weed the numbness out. </p><p>“Well, that’s why you’re supposed to fucking <em>sip </em>it,” Zane rolled his eyes.</p><p>Arthur closed his current notebook and reached into the vanity for another one. He took one from the bottom of the drawer; one he hadn't taken material from in a while.</p><p>“How many people is a <em>sold out </em>house?” Cassie leaned back in her chair. She sat next to Natalie on the left side of the room. Ed and Petyr were positioned on the right. The order went: Cassie, Natalie, Zane, Arthur, Megan, Santiago, Ed, Petyr. However, they performed in the following: Ed, Cassie, Megan, Natalie, Santiago, Petyr, Zane, Arthur.</p><p>“Well that depends on whether or not they broke fire safety procedures and let people come in on the side ramps,” said Ed. “If they did, that’s probably an extra forty or so people. Max occupancy is two hundred on the bottom, one hundred on the balcony. I’d say three forty at most. And I’ve heard ‘em a few times when Buschwick’s come and checked in on us. They’re just chomping at the bit out there. Like piranhas that’ve been fasting for a week and a half.”</p><p>“You invited Mergers and Acquisitions?” Natalie fashioned on her black beret.</p><p>“They’re friends,” said Arthur, “and they invited themselves.”</p><p>“<em>Jeffery Castion</em>…” Zane whistled.</p><p>“<em>Oh</em>, fuck yourself,” said Arthur.</p><p>“Hey now, an audience is an audience,” said Ed, “besides I’m sure having some Oasis boys in the house will keep the rabble in check. You know there’s always at least one heckler, one fucking critic that has to talk shit.”</p><p>“<em>Always</em>,” said Petyr.</p><p>“Like they have anything fucking funny to say,” said Ed, “you know what the problem is today? Not that everyone <em>always </em>has something to say, but that they don’t know <em>when</em> to. There’s a time and a place for you to sit down, order your drink, then shut the fuck up. I mean you forked over four figures to sit down in front and you’re gonna waste it correcting my goddamn grammar? Here’s what <em>I</em> have to say to <em>you</em>, baby boy: <em>eat dick</em>.”</p><p>“Spoken like a proper clown,” said Cassie.</p><p>Arthur briefly remembered the lunch he’d had with Jeffery, Riley, and the rest of their crew at <em>Tito’s</em>.</p><p>Riley had just finished mauling a three and a half pound lobster and a pitcher of iced tea. <em>“Come on… you’re funny. We should go. I’ll round up the whole fucking department—anyone that doesn’t laugh’ll get their fucking head kicked in.”</em></p><p><em>“Thanks, Riley. Appreciate it.”</em> Arthur hadn't thought they were serious.</p><p>The door into the dressing room opened and Buschwick popped her head in. “It’s time, children.”</p><p>“Well I suppose that’s my cue,” Ed got up and cracked his neck.</p><p>“You know what to do,” said Santiago giving him a fist bump.</p><p>“Yeah, <em>bomb</em> and make us look better,” Zane let out a cackle.</p><p>Ed left for the stage.</p><p>“<em>Okay</em>,” said Zane, “now that we’re off to the races as it were, will one of you please entertain me and say something that’s damn fucking funny?”</p><p>“Okay…” Petyr raised a finger as he cleared his throat. “… two girls get sent to Gulag—”</p><p>“Nope… nope, nope, nope,” Zane immediately waved him off, “we’re not doing the Gulag bit. I’ve got a nice ribeye waiting for me at Klub Katz for our afterparty and I won’t have you spoiling my appetite with your miserable tripe.”</p><p>Cassie said, “Who, in their right mind, orders steak at a bar?”</p><p>“Klub Katz ain’t no <em>bar</em>, little lady, it’s an upscale… what’s the word I’m looking for here?” Zane snapped his fingers. He turned to Arthur. “Come on boyo I’m drowning here.”</p><p>“A lounge?”</p><p>“Let’s go with that, ‘<em>a lounge</em>’. And for seventy five bucks they’d better make one fine, helluva steak.”</p><p>Natalie added more black liner around her eyes. “When are we gonna get to perform at Klub Katz?”</p><p>“Buschwick said she put in a word for us with the man himself,” said Arthur.</p><p>“With <em>Katz</em>,” Santiago snickered, “are we even allowed to say the guy’s name?”</p><p>“Well he’s not a <em>guy</em>, so no,” said Arthur.</p><p>“What is he then?”</p><p>“He’s a <em>spook</em>,” said Zane.</p><p>“He’s <em>not </em>a spook,” said Arthur.</p><p>“Well then, my question still stands,” Santiago poured himself another shot, “who, or <em>what</em>, the fuck is he?”</p><p>The room glared at Arthur.</p><p>“Well we are going to his club. Find him and ask him,” said Arthur.</p><p>Zane and Santiago shook their heads disapprovingly.</p><p>“He’s probably very boring,” said Megan, “just organizes Dante’s poker games and gets a bad rep for it.”</p><p>“<em>Yeah</em>, darlin’,” Zane’s eyes did a quick rotation, “that’s Katz all sorted out.”</p><p>Buschwick opened the door again and a rapturous applause could be heard echoing throughout The Hippo Club, complete with whistles and calls for an encore.</p><p>“Finishing touches everyone.” She left the door ajar.</p><p>As his troupe began to rise, Arthur held his right hand in front of him and thought for a tick he saw it shake. He was willing to write it off as his mind playing a dirty trick on him, but the bottle Blackberry Joy in the center of his vanity began to call him. It was faint and distant, but it would get louder. Arthur reached for the Joy and got far enough to the point where he actually gripped a few fingers around the bottle.</p><p>“<em>Arthur</em>,” Megan leaned in and rested a hand on his shoulder, “do you really need that stuff?”</p><p>Arthur remained fixed on the bottle, even as Megan left the dressing room with the others.</p><p>Zane called after him, “HASTINGS YOU TWAT!”</p><p>Arthur, with a flick of his wrist, tossed the bottle across the room. He left and joined his troupe in the hall. The corridor leading up to the stage was cloaked in a dark green light.</p><p>Santiago stood next to Arthur. “Fuck’s wrong with you? Shit happen with Ridgewell?”</p><p>“<em>No</em>,” Arthur put on his happy face, “we’re all smiles.”</p><p>One by one the <em>Delinquents </em>made the walk to the stage. Ed had started with his classic Rorschach test bit: when he was a teenager in juvie, a shrink had tried to probe into his mind with a serious of coffee stains on printer paper that took on the form of increasingly malformed cocks. Cassie, with a little too much liquor in her step, plodded out and did her mechanical bull bit: the time she got piss drunk on dollar store whiskey and got off on riding a mechanical bull. It was dirty and crude, usually a hit with the fellas. Megan balanced it out well with clean but zany take on a jewish shotgun wedding in Prague she’d heard about second hand in her hair salon.</p><p>Natalie brought none other than Jeffery Castion on stage to be her prop. She had the audience give her a scene, and the <em>Mergers </em>crew wanted Jeffery’s eye taken out with a screwdriver. Natalie obliged, and mimed out brutalizing the VP, much to his amusement. Apparently he was ticklish. Santiago went with a time-honored bit of his, the war between the two Japanese restaurants across from each other on his block. It involved two different accents and usually left Santiago dripping with sweat, as he darted across the stage, mimicking Aaron and David—the Japanese restaurant owners American names.</p><p>Petyr went with new material about his great uncle that tried teaching a bear to play chess. Zane went off on a tangent about inner city kids that try going to an Irish pub and ask for fruity, off-beat cocktails. It was new to Arthur, and felt like something Zane had cobbled together on the way to the stage because he saw two kids at the bar with too much hairspray trying to order strawberry margaritas.</p><p>As Zane bowed and sauntered off stage left, Arthur felt his body switch into autopilot. He felt relaxed. Riley, Jeffery, and the others began to chant his name, and Arthur walked out on stage as if it was the center of the galaxy. He took the microphone and smiled into it.</p><p>“I like to start out every set by mentioning that my ex-wife, and the mother of my <em>only</em> child, is a bitch. She’s a few other words too. The one’s teenagers too afraid to jerk off use in reference to the female genitalia. Usually this is when I get heckled and asked where the punchline is, and I tell them, I say: there is no punchline. I just like starting off every night by saying what a cunt she is—<em>oops</em>. That’s the naughty word. Then all the elegant, <em>southern</em> women in the back take out their little fan things and feign a heat stroke. I always get nervous when the southern women, they call them <em>Bells</em>, get all flustered.</p><p>They have these dresses on that stretch out about eighteen feet behind them, in front of them, off to the sides. They function as tarmacs on the weekend. And I always get nervous one of ‘em is gonna fucking burst a vein in their neck, from all the meth—oh, no, I mean my use of the word <em>cunt</em>. Then they’ll feint or something dramatic and bang their head on the way down causing severe brain trauma and old, repressed memories of being diddled by their second cousin on prom night to come flooding back. Then guess who everyone's gonna sue? <em>Me</em>. There’ll be people up in the balcony that don’t even know what happened, they’ll just know there was a commotion and lean over the rail and then just… throw themselves off to get a better look.</p><p><em>‘Ah gee Sharon I can’t see lemme just fling myself off here… ah… I can see it now some bitch cracked her head open… wait hold on a sec did my spine always curve diagonally like this?’ </em>Yeah, yeah, sue that prick on stage twelve million. The busboy too, by the way make sure you tip them well they got machetes in the back, he’ll sue me too. We’ll be in court, and the busboy who wasn't even working that night will come in, in a full body cast, one eye, no teeth, and have a translator tell the jury why he needs twelve million from me. It happens every motherfucking time and I get the shakes. Cause guess who’s legs the proprietor will wind up breaking? <em>Mine</em>. But enough about that, how many of you go to family cookouts?”</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Party Pooper</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Arthur and his troupe celebrate at Klub Katz.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u">
    <b>Send in the Clowns (Arthur)</b>
  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span class="u">
    <b>December 16</b>
  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p><em>“And do you ever see the women they have in these convents?” </em>Arthur had lost himself completely on stage. He was removed from his body and watched from afar as it acted all on its own. The last riff he went on wasn't even something prepped or scrawled out in a notebook backstage. It all came together from making brief eye contact with Jeffery—something he made an effort not to do because locking eyes with the audience was the quickest way to throw yourself off and get caught up in whether or not they <em>look </em>like they’re having a good time—and remembering a conversation they’d had over a late lunch at Tito’s the past week about nuns. When he was on stage, the only sustenance Arthur needed to survive was laughter. He could go on all night and not need a single drop of water or pause for a breath of air.</p>
<p>
  <em>“My goodness… holy shit the sight of them. Cause they build up this grand sense of mystery, right, this sense of ‘oh what’s it gonna be under all those robes’. But then they just don’t pay it off properly. I mean I know my mind just goes racing with the possibilities: what if she’s a ginger? Does she have freckles? What about cute little birthmarks, that other less sensitive men haven't appreciated as well as I know I would. Does she shave down there? Is it clean or is there more of a landing strip, you see I prefer the landing strip myself because that just makes everyone’s ride a lot smoother. Like we don't need to taxi the plane or anything, we have a clear marker for our destination. Does this cloistered, young woman who has completely given her life to God have any tramp stamps or ‘Lucky You’ tattoos in suggestive places. You know, from before this transitional period, back when she was a biker down in Arizona giving handjobs in the 7/11 restroom.”</em>
</p>
<p>From the balcony down to the people who funneled in late and had to lean on the side-railings, Arthur was blinded by smiling faces. Every sentence finished disappeared behind him. He didn't know where he was going, but more track just kept laying itself down in front of him. Arthur didn't know how to stop, if he could at all.</p>
<p>
  <em>“Then when the big reveal comes, the robes come off and you’re just like… fuck off. I wasted six months of my life for this? It’s not even bad, it’s just average. You decide to fuck a nun and you set yourself up for the big leagues. Forget the fashion models, they’re too melodramatic and skinny. Forget the foreign movie stars, they don't take direction well and make you sign a forty eight page contract before you can even get your balls massaged. And forget that girl you knew in high school, sixth period Ms. Erickson’s English class, that you now see posing as your bratty step sister, taking it up the ass from four Jamaicans covered head to toe in Chinese writing tattoos.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Nuns are like the prize you get for beating Donkey Kong on the final level at the arcade, but then right before you smack the last barrel back at him the whole place loses power and the owner comes over and punches you in the dick. That’s your reward, I suppose, for trying to defile one of God’s children. Mediocrity, with only the vane hope that after a few years she loses interest, and you see her posing as your stepmum, taking it up the ass from six Jamaicans, all covered head to toe in Chinese lettering tattoos. What the fuck is up with that by the way? Seriously? You don’t even know what the fuck you got written on you.”</em>
</p>
<p>As Arthur looked down at his Jameson on the rocks, he hadn't the faintest idea how he ever left the stage at The Hippo Club. Buschwick had probably come and removed him. Arthur drank. A faded final few words came back to him: <em>“Thank you ladies and gentlemen, you’ve been excellent, good night. And remember, the busboys have machetes, so make sure you tip them well.”</em></p>
<p>His troupe, as well as the Mergers crew and what few sales reps Riley had dragged along, had migrated to Klub Katz for the afterparty. Jeffery and Santiago were doing shots of tequila. Chris and Jason were off trying to pick up women on the first floor of the club, where upbeat Jazz was playing and colored lights, far too bright for Arthur’s eyes, were spinning around and around. Dean was chatting up Natalie over a beer, an effort humorous to Arthur in its utter futility. Byron, fresh off his stint in the TV room, was quietly sipping away at a club soda on the far side of the bar.</p>
<p>Petyr had disappeared, though Arthur figured he was out on the third floor balcony having a cigarette. There was no smoking allowed inside the club. Megan might have been dancing down on the first floor, but Arthur didn't feel steady enough to join her and not step on her toes. Ed and Zane were placing fresh drinks orders, working up the nerve to step up to the man himself, Katz, as he was currently in attendance, schmoozing with some French men in fancy blue suits over in the VIP section.</p>
<p>Arthur was sitting with Cassie.</p>
<p>“You did great tonight, Arthur,” she said, sipping on a whiskey sour.</p>
<p>“Thanks.”</p>
<p>“That bit about the nuns was new.”</p>
<p>“Yeah. It just, uh… it just came to me.”</p>
<p>“So you didn't really fuck a nun?”</p>
<p>Arthur chuckled. “<em>No</em>,” he drank, “and from what I hear, I’m not missing anything.”</p>
<p>“And the bit about <em>landing strips</em>,” she nudged his shoulder.</p>
<p>“Well…”</p>
<p>Cassie cackled and snorted. “You’re the worst!”</p>
<p>Arthur swirled his drink around, watching as the ice collided with the side of the glass. “I’m just trying to make people laugh.”</p>
<p>The bartender came up with a fresh drink for Cassie. “Comes with compliments,” he said, and motioned to Riley who was sitting at a high-top table behind them.</p>
<p>Cassie blushed.</p>
<p>“I wouldn't drink that,” said Arthur.</p>
<p>“You what? Why not?”</p>
<p>“I just wouldn’t. I’m urging <em>you</em> not too.”</p>
<p>“You’re <em>urging</em> me, Arthur?”</p>
<p>“Yes. <em>Strongly</em>.”</p>
<p>Cassie hopped down from her seat and downed Riley’s drink in three quick gulps. “And I appreciate it,” she burped loudly in Arthur’s face, “<em>strongly</em>.” Cassie stumbled, but tried to walk it off and look good, over to Riley.</p>
<p>Arthur watched as Cassie sat down. First Riley would offer his hand, then he would order another round of drinks. Only he didn't really drink his. Riley sipped, swished the vodka and cranberry juice around in his mouth, then found an opportune moment to spit it back in the glass.</p>
<p>“You’re staring, Mr. Monster,” said Katz. His pristine white suit and the contrasting purple flower attached to it were an illustrious sight to Arthur’s weary eyes.</p>
<p>“I was, and you can just call me Arthur off stage.”</p>
<p>“Your colleagues seem to have a proposition for me.”</p>
<p>“They do.”</p>
<p>“Should I hear them out?”</p>
<p>“If you want to,” said Arthur.</p>
<p>“I <em>want </em>to know what <em>you</em> think of it.”</p>
<p>“They want to perform here. While our act doesn’t quite fit the decor, I don't think that should be a problem.”</p>
<p>“<em>You see</em>,” Katz was handed a fresh bottle of champagne from behind the bar, “that wasn't so hard.”</p>
<p>As Katz made his way back to the VIP section, Ed and Zane swooped in.</p>
<p>“Well, what’d he say?”</p>
<p>“Don’t ya dare keep me in suspense here boyo.”</p>
<p>Arthur polished off his drink. “You’re gonna have to actually find a pair of balls and talk to him. He doesn't want to hear shit from me. <em>I </em>haven’t been eye-fucking him all night.”</p>
<p>“Ah bollocks to it,” said Zane.</p>
<p>“Alright, alright,” said Ed, straightening out his leather jacket, “he wants to talk to me, no problem.” He took a small comb out from his pocket. “Gimmie a tick and I’ll knock his fuckin’ furry socks off.” Ed left for the men’s room.</p>
<p>“Godspeed to that man,” said Zane as he pulled up a seat.</p>
<p>“He’s gonna need it.” Arthur returned his gaze to Riley.</p>
<p>“I gotta say, when you get a good flow goin’, it’s a thing of sheer… what the fuck are you gawkin’ at, I’m trying to pay ya a compliment you jackass.” Zane turned around and followed the outline of daggers stemming from Arthur’s eyes. “Well what’s up your ass? You had your pick and out of all the delights on offer, you went with the school teacher. Now don't get me wrong, I get that some people are into that sort of thing, but you can't double dip now that she's spankin’ ya too hard with the yardstick. That just muddies the water for the rest of us.”</p>
<p>Arthur turned back around to the bar and swished the ice around in his glass some more. “What the hell are you on about?”</p>
<p>Zane took the glass from him. “First of all, your fuckin’ drink is empty. Now, <em>‘what am I on about’</em>? Cass and the golden child over there. If you wanted to know just <em>how </em>good she is at riding a mechanical bull, you shouldn't have gotten all twisted up with the little lady down stairs.”</p>
<p>“Did you say she was a school teacher?”</p>
<p>“Yeah.”</p>
<p>“And that she spanked me with a yardstick?”</p>
<p>“I’m not shaming ya, we’ve all got our thing,” said Zane.</p>
<p>Arthur stood up. “Fuck. Off. Why don’t you do the lord’s work and make sure Ed doesn't get himself disappeared.”</p>
<p>“Worst case scenario he ends up in Brazil…”</p>
<p>Zane’s retort got lost in the background swirl of saxophones and corny pickup lines deflating. Both Cassie and Riley were gone from their table. Arthur moved out, through the crowd, and found Buschwick coming up the stairs.</p>
<p>“You and me need to iron precisely how long fifteen minutes is, Arthur.”</p>
<p>“Where did Cassie go?”</p>
<p>Buschwick gave him a quizzical look. “She was headed in the back, probably the bathroom. Why?”</p>
<p>Arthur didn't answer. He looked around to see if he could find Riley, but he wasn't down with Chris and Jacob, and Jeffery was slouched over alone, having lost to Santiago after only three shots.</p>
<p>“Arthur!” Buschwick grabbed Arthur by the arm and shook him. “What’s wrong with you?”</p>
<p>Arthur broke away from Buschwick and pushed his way to the back of the second floor, behind the bar, where the bathrooms were. He saw Ed, his hair efficiently combed, striding out of the men’s room.</p>
<p>“Don't worry Arthur, this shit is as good as locked down.”</p>
<p>“Sure is, Ed, you see Riley in there?”</p>
<p>“Who?”</p>
<p>“Oasis suit.”</p>
<p>“Nah. It was just me in there. Now if you’ll excuse me…” Ed marched on.</p>
<p>Arthur found his feet locked in their current position: positioned halfway between the bathrooms and the crowd on the second floor of Klub Katz. Buschwick was watching him. Arthur approached the door to the women’s bathroom and grabbed the handle. It was locked. He continued jiggling the handle until he ripped it from the door.</p>
<p>Arthur stepped inside the women’s bathroom, briefly catching his reflection in the mirror. He didn't recognize himself. His face was cleared of any makeup—Megan had helped with the creases—but his eyes were dead. The sound of a zipper being undone snapped Arthur back to the present. Riley’s bare ass was hanging out of the last stall. His knees were bent and he was touching himself; visibly frustrated that he wasn't getting hard.</p>
<p>Arthur slowly crept up to the stall and saw Cassie bent over the toilet, unconscious, with her pants pulled down around her ankles.</p>
<p>Riley leaned against the stall door, letting out an exasperated sigh, then he noticed Arthur.</p>
<p>“Oh, hey Hastings, thought I’d locked the door… <em>shit happens</em>.” Riley didn't stop trying to get it up. He stared intently at Cassie’s exposed body and bit down on his lower lip. “You were… <em>um</em>… you were really great tonight man… but, uh… you’re kinda fuckin’ me up right now.”</p>
<p>“STOP, Riley.”</p>
<p>“Come again?”</p>
<p>“STOP.”</p>
<p>“Why?”</p>
<p>“She’s part of my troupe.”</p>
<p>“Well, <em>shit</em>,” Riley stopped touching himself, “I didn't mean to step on anyone’s toes. I need a minute or two anyway. You get going, then I’ll hop on after. You an ass man? Doesn’t matter to me.”</p>
<p>“You need to leave Riley. Now.”</p>
<p>“You know Arthur, you’re kinda starting to irritate me.”</p>
<p>“I don't care.”</p>
<p>“And now you're just being rude. After I went and organized a whole crew to come down here for you. <em>Shit</em>, man, come on. I said you get first crack. I <em>said </em>you can have the ass, more than that I don't know what you want from me. But I’m starting to feel less courteous as I stand here with my dick out.”</p>
<p>“Riley—”</p>
<p>“<em>Arthur</em>…”</p>
<p>“If you don't leave, NOW, I’m going to kill you.”</p>
<p>“Are you really?”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“That’s not funny, Arthur.”</p>
<p>“It's not supposed to be.”</p>
<p>Riley squinted. “I smoked some wicked Blueberry Muppet before the show, are you even real?”</p>
<p>Arthur grabbed Riley by the neck and lifted him off the floor just as Cassie stirred awake. “<em>Unfortunately</em>.” Arthur threw Riley face first into the nearest mirror.</p>
<p>Riley felt his face in horror. There was glass embedded in his cheek and forehead. Blood dripped down onto the floor beneath him. He poked a piece of glass sticking out below his right eye and whimpered.</p>
<p>He began to crawl towards the door, but Arthur grabbed him by his hair, picked him up, and slammed his head straight through a sink.</p>
<p>Arthur broke another mirror, took a long, jagged piece, and slid it completely inside Riley’s left eye.</p>
<p>Cassie crawled out of the stall, her wits close about her.</p>
<p>Arthur stood above Riley’s brutalized body.</p>
<p>“Arthur?”</p>
<p>He looked down at her. “Get out of here, Cassie.”</p>
<p>She pulled her pants up and stood. “<em>What the hell</em>…” she winced and held her head.</p>
<p>“<em>Shut up</em>. If you see Buschwick on your way out, send her in.”</p>
<p>“Okay.” Cassie shuffled past Arthur. She stopped at the door. She looked back at Arthur as if to say something, but he shook his head.</p>
<p>“<em>Don’t</em>.”</p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. A Dollar Short</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Arthur cleans up his mess; Katz calls in his staff.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u">
    <b>Send in the Clowns (Arthur)</b>
  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span class="u">
    <b>December 17</b>
  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Arthur hadn't noticed his hand was bleeding. He looked in the mirror at his disheveled reflection and smirked. He heard footsteps just outside the door into the women’s bathroom at Klub Katz and immediately went to block entry. “It’s out of order,” he said.</p>
<p>On the other side, Buschwick asked, “Why?”</p>
<p>Arthur opened the door slightly. “Have a look.”</p>
<p>Buschwick crept one eye inside and stole a glance at the stalls. Slowly she peered over to the smashed mirrors, broken sink, and finally the corpse of the sales departments golden boy.</p>
<p>“What the fuck have you done?”</p>
<p>“What's it look like?”</p>
<p>“Now? <em>Really</em>?”</p>
<p>“Well we didn't have a bloody tea party. He’s not getting back up, and I need quick and easy remedies, not questions. Not the obvious you can piece together just by eyeballing the scene, and not the why of it, which I’d be more than happy to que you in on later. Once his fucking body is gone and I have a decent story as to where it’s gone,” said Arthur.</p>
<p>“This isn't my club, Arthur.”</p>
<p>“I know it’s not. The way I see it, though, no use delaying the inevitable. Katz outta be looped in, and that’s your job.”</p>
<p>“<em>Great</em>. What do you plan on doing? Standing guard?”</p>
<p>“No. I need to get something from the van,” said Arthur.</p>
<p>“So who's keeping this shit locked down?”</p>
<p>“I’ll find a guy,” Arthur quickly stepped out of the bathroom, “we need to be quick like. Clear the club asap.”</p>
<p>“You owe me, Arthur,” said Buschwick.</p>
<p>“I know how you collect. I’ll manage.”</p>
<p>They separated, with Buschwick making her way to the VIP section and Arthur seeking out Zane. The Irishman was at the bar toasting with Ed.</p>
<p>“I never lost faith in ya Ed old boy,” said Zane.</p>
<p>“It comes with the business,” Ed downed his shot, “you gotta know how to close a deal.”</p>
<p>On noticing Arthur, Zane went to order another shot. “One more for this dopey looking cunt right here please.”</p>
<p>“I’ll pass, thanks,” said Arthur, “why don't you go spread the good word, Ed, let everyone know we made it to the big leagues.”</p>
<p>“I don't know if I can make it down the stairs.”</p>
<p>“Sure you can,” Arthur propped him up and gently nudged him along, “come on, it’s one foot after the other. Right, left, right, left. If you fall we get to sue for twelve million.” With Ed off on his way, Arthur sat down. “We have a situation.”</p>
<p>Zane leaned in. “What kind?”</p>
<p>“The kind that means we’re back on the clock… <em>unofficially</em>.”</p>
<p>“<em>That</em>… doesn't really mean what you think it means Arthur. Listen, I’m a tad bit fucked up right now, so if you can speak a little plainly…”</p>
<p>“I need you to make sure nobody steps foot into the women’s bathroom. Got it?”</p>
<p>“Not in the slightest, but good thing for you I know how to stand in front of a door.”</p>
<p>Arthur got up from the bar and pushed his way through the crowd, taking the stairs down to the second floor. He passed Ed half way down.</p>
<p>“I’ll get there, Arthur,” said Ed gripping the railing for dear life, “once everyone stops multiplying.”</p>
<p>Arthur ignored calls from Chris and Jason and hurriedly made his way outside. The air at one in the morning froze his lungs. There was a traffic jam up the block from the club accompanied by a deafening chorus of horns. Arthur made a left and then turned the corner, passing by a vacant cardboard box. He took the van keys from his pocket and clicked open the back. Arthur hopped in and shut the doors behind him. The troupe had commissioned a Doctor van for carpooling. He took a pair of cable wire cutters and left.</p>
<p>As he was walking back up to the club, the crowd was pouring out. Arthur slipped Santiago the keys, as he and Petyr were carrying Ed. There were eyes on him as soon as he reached the stairs. Buschwick and Katz were still talking in hushed whispers. Arthur went straight for the bathroom and found Zane dutifully at his post.</p>
<p>“There better be one massive cockroach in there, boyo.”</p>
<p>“Nah, it’s actually pretty small,” said Arthur.</p>
<p>“<em>Uh-huh</em>… and you gonna do a little gardening in there too while you’re at it?”</p>
<p>“You can go now Zane.”</p>
<p>“<em>Go</em>? Where? The after-afterparty just started.”</p>
<p>“I only got one pair of cutters.”</p>
<p>“Well I’m sure management has a spare lying around somewhere. Now, shall we?”</p>
<p>“Suit yourself,” said Arthur. He pushed open the door and knelt down.</p>
<p>“HOLY FUCKING SHIT!” Zane jumped in the air. “<em>HOLY</em>… hahaha. You have got to be putting one on me right now Hastings.” He moved around Arthur and took in the whole scene. “Oh please, <em>pretty please </em>tell me you got Jeffery somewhere in here too.”</p>
<p>“Just get his shoes and start patting him down. Wallet, phone, all that shit. And I don't wanna hear one, single, solitary fucking word more out of your mouth until we’re at <em>Jackie’s</em>, having a nice dark roast and a slice of day old cherry pie. Cause if I do, then Katz’ll <em>really</em> plotz. We’ll have a double disappearance and those take <em>hours</em> to work out.”</p>
<p>“No I won’t,” the man himself materialized in the doorway, “we have plenty of garbage bags. Though you gentlemen really should let <em>me</em> handle things from her on out. I have staff for this.”</p>
<p>Zane squinted. “Beg your pardon?”</p>
<p>“That’s not even the second body I will have had cleared out of that bathroom <em>tonight</em>. Allow me to ring Billy.” Katz disappeared.</p>
<p>“What in the ever-loving fuck…”</p>
<p>“Keep on it, Zane. Until <em>Billy </em>shows up.” Arthur began cutting off Riley’s fingers.</p>
<p>Zane dug through his pockets and took out a little white bottle with no label. He opened it and eyed the dissolvable tablets. “<em>What a lad</em>… employee of the fucking month… rotten cunt.”</p>
<p>Arthur finished one hand and moved onto the other.</p>
<p>Zane glared at the bottle, then his eyes shifted to the mirrors and sink. “Before today, you were just another cog in paradise, Arthur.”</p>
<p>“<em>What</em>?” He stopped cutting.</p>
<p>“You were slowly starting to come loose, but today… you just broke right off. Popped out the window and decapitated the janitor along the way.”</p>
<p>“You need to clear yourself up,” said Arthur.</p>
<p>“Oh I am <em>perfectly</em> crystal. I see you now, Hastings. You bet I do. Knees down in this fucking bathroom at who knows what hour. Feel like I’m finally gettin’ to see that… <em>Monster</em>.”</p>
<p>There were footsteps approaching the bathroom. Arthur clipped the last finger.</p>
<p>“As you can see, they made themselves busy,” said Katz. He was flanked by an incredibly tall, lanky man whose arms were covered in tattooed tentacles.</p>
<p>“<em>How noble</em>,” said Billy, a wad of chewing tobacco in the corner of his mouth. His accent was distinctively midwestern. He sounded almost like Ronald Reagan, if instead of becoming president, he worked data entry at a desk that came up to his knees and a cubicle that barely reached his neck. Billy stepped into the already crowded bathroom and spit on Riley. “You boys leave everything as is. This fella have a phone?” Zane handed it over. “That’s real swell. <em>Genius</em> that decided to cut off all his fingers, gimmie the right thumb. And be sure to leave those real expensive lookin’ wire cutters.” Arthur begrudgingly handed over the thumb. Billy unlocked the phone and began to dial. “I’m gonna need two more sets of hands… just not these here. You mind Katz?”</p>
<p>“Not at all.”</p>
<p>“Fan-fuckin-tastic. Right now you two can fuck off. <em>Daddy’s </em>got it from here.”</p>
<p>Arthur and Zane stood. “You don't even wanna know who this is?” Asked the former.</p>
<p>“Oh but I already do. Name’s Riley. That bottle is filled with a fast acting muscle relaxer. And from the looks of his messages… he hasn't spoken to his mother in six months, there’s a woman named Carly who thinks she’s having his babies, and… apparently he was trying to sell a hair trimmer for your balls on Craigslist. Think I got a decent enough picture, <em>Holmes, </em>but don't worry, the storytelling is all you. Canvas is blank, use whatever color you want. This guy though… I’d put a nice price on him taking a first class ticket down to the Caribbean and never coming back. The weather’s nice and he recently found out he likes women who remind him of the Jamaican nanny he had when he was a boy.”</p>
<p>Arthur and Zane left the bathroom. Billy shut the door behind them.</p>
<p>“Goodnight gentlemen,” said Katz.</p>
<p>“<em>Night</em>,” said Arthur.</p>
<p>“Till next time,” said Zane.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span class="u">
    <b>One Hour Later</b>
  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Billy loaded the body of Riley into the back of a hearse. Jed had come to scoop up all the extras: personal effects, fingers, bits of glass, remnants of the sink, and the wire cutters. Herman stayed behind and doused the bathroom in chemicals. Every window in the club was opened to compensate, and no one except Herman—who was wearing a gas mask—was allowed in the building. It would be this way for five to six hours. Herman scrubbed every trace of human contact clean away.</p>
<p>Billy and Jed drove two hours down to a funeral parlor in Pleasantville. Billy stripped Riley down, first disposing of all his clothes in the furnace. Then Billy scalped him, removed all his teeth, and cut both his feet off. The body was thrown into the furnace.</p>
<p>Jed dissolved the glass, bits of sink, and the wire cutters in a barrel of purple acid. Billy came and dumped the teeth in afterwards. While Jed ground up the feet and fingers in a meat grinder, Billy dumped Riley’s wallet and pill bottle in the acid. Jed finished with the meat, pounded it out, then packaged it up and slapped a <em>Kobe Beef </em>label on it. Billy wiped Riley’s phone clean, then chucked it in the acid.</p>
<p>Just as the sun began to rise, Jed cleaned the ashes out of the furnace, then drove the meat down to the butcher shop. Billy hauled the acid barrel down into the basement beneath the parlor. Just as Herman returned, Billy walked out into the graveyard behind the parlor and entered the Myers family crypt. He twisted the head of an angel statue and a small alcove revealed itself. He took a winding set of steps down and emerged in a hall lined with scalps. Billy pinned Riley amongst the others, then left them in darkness.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Blink Twice</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Arthur attends a board meeting, then faces HR with Jeffery. Features his forth set interlude.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u">
    <b>Send in the Clowns (Arthur)</b>
  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span class="u">
    <b>December 17</b>
  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>There was a middle-aged African American man named Mr. Wood standing at the front of the main conference room on the thirty third floor. Floors thirty one to thirty nine were all finance, and floors thirty one to thirty three specialized in investor relations.The <em>Mister</em>, sipping from his red <em>‘I Love NY’</em> coffee mug and picking off bits of a cranberry muffin, was a spook of the highest order. He came from a building that didn't exist and handed out blank business cards. Mr. Wood, for apparently he applied his expertise to the lumber trade, wore a freshly tailored black suit. For most people that saw a spook in their suit, it was usually their last day amongst the still breathing above ground, but for Arthur it was just another day at the company store.</p>
<p>“Alright,” Mr. Wood took in the scene that was the packed conference room, “<em>alright</em>. Good afternoon class…” there were chuckles from IR’s best and brightest in the front. Arthur was positioned at an aisle seat in the third to last row. “I am your substitute teacher Mr. Wood. Now I know you all were expecting a little… <em>um</em>…” Mr. Wood chuckled as he mulled over how to phrase his next sentence. “… I know you were expecting a colleague of mine. But unfortunately she’s been pulled away on other business, though I have been given strict instructions from her. I would've even wore her skirt, but <em>um</em>… it doesn't come in, as my father would say, big fat bastard size.” There were more chuckles. Mr. Wood continued ad-libbing, but Arthur had long since tuned him out.</p>
<p>Jeffery nudged him. “<em>Wake up Hastings</em>. <em>Investors can't catch you sleeping on the job</em>.”</p>
<p>Arthur reached into his uniform pocket and pulled out a packet of blue, clear mint flavored gum. “<em>All I know is…</em>” Arthur unwrapped himself a piece “… <em>eventually the gum I like is gonna come back in style</em>.”</p>
<p>“What I wanna get into the thick of now is…” Mr. Wood clicked on a slideshow. “… aggressive sales tactics. Now I don't mean walking up door to door and beating someone into making a purchase with a lead pipe, though if data comes in suggesting that might work better, we’ll reconvene in six to eight weeks. Where’s my boy Riley? Someone get his <em>fine </em>ass up here.”</p>
<p>Murmuring broke out in the conference room as heads swiveled all around and did not produce Riley.</p>
<p>“Come on now…” Mr. Wood peppy demeanor took a jab, but he kept smiling. “<em>Paging Mr. Anders</em>… come on man, what did he step out to take a piss or something?”</p>
<p>Arthur turned and saw the envoy sent by the sales department get up and start a grid type search.</p>
<p>“<em>Alright</em>… guess I’ll have to cover for him too,” Mr. Wood recomposed, “come on y’all let's crack on. Just let Riley know, when he does turn up, that I’m gonna run him over with a steamroller. So, when we say <em>‘aggressive sales tactics’</em> the heart of what we’re getting at is…”</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Arthur and Jeffery got off on the thirteenth floor.</p>
<p>“If I know Riley, he’s right where he belongs, eh… <em>his own grave</em>,” Jeffery snickered, “when we get in there just let me do all the talking, okay? I saved you a bagel on the twentieth. We just gotta get through this bullshit.”</p>
<p>They entered conference room two and took seats opposite the <em>Human Resources Committee</em>, with their pure, snow white bow ties and polka dot themed face masks that made it look like they had skittles flavored chickenpox. There were seven members. The first, a man in the middle, cleared his throat and shuffled a set of papers.</p>
<p>“Mr. Hastings, Mr. Castion, thank you for coming in today.”</p>
<p>“Oh it’s our pleasure, really. Any help we can provide, consider it done. I mean we’ll take the rest of the day off and start scouring the city…”</p>
<p>“Thank you, Mr. Castion.”</p>
<p>“We’ll start at Tito’s, then make our way down to <em>The Irish Dragon </em>on tenth which is actually a little hole in the wall Chinese place. We’ll circle back to <em>Barry’s</em>, hit <em>The Palm</em>, work our way downtown—”</p>
<p>“That won't be necessary, Mr. Castion. Perhaps you should let Mr. Hastings take a few breaths for you.”</p>
<p>“Oh no, that’s not gonna work. See, Arthur’s really broken up over the whole thing. Yeah… just really depressed. I mean I don't even think he can manage fully formed sentences right now. Might not be able to till next week. He’s allowed me to speak for him, though.”</p>
<p>“In what official capacity?”</p>
<p>“<em>Sidebar</em>,” Jeffery pulled Arthur in for a huddle.</p>
<p>“This is not a courtroom Mr. Castion!”</p>
<p>Jeffery pulled out a napkin and started scribbling on it with a blue pen. “Just fucking sign your name at the bottom alright.”</p>
<p>“I don't need you to do this.”</p>
<p>“Just sign the goddamn napkin Arthur.”</p>
<p>Arthur took the pen and did a quick initial.</p>
<p>Jeffery winked and slid the napkin across the table. “As you can see, Mr. Hastings has given me full authority to discuss last night’s events on his behalf. And since we were both in the same place, at the same time, should be no issue.”</p>
<p>The man in the middle took the napkin and rolled his eyes.</p>
<p>The woman to his left leaned forward in her seat. “And where was that, exactly?”</p>
<p>“I’m so glad you asked. We were down at Bamonte’s, in Brooklyn. Me, Arthur, Chris, Jason, Dean, Byron… about a dozen or so others. Shit we had the place to ourselves it was a real happening soiree. Would’ve invited you guys but… it was very spur of the moment.”</p>
<p>“<em>Right</em>. What’d you have?”</p>
<p>“Well I know <em>I </em>started out with the shrimp cocktail. Arthur tried the stuffed mushrooms but they were too loaded down with breadcrumbs, and I agree there comes a point where they just water down the whole dish. Then I had the Pork Chop Parmigiana, and Arthur had the Stuffed Flounder Pescatore. We were drinking a nice Amarone, Bolla. I don't quite recall what everyone else ordered, I know there was someClams Casino and Fried Zucchini going around at one point. If you need a bill I have one in my desk, I can be back in a tick and we can go over the whole thing. Or, better yet, if you call Accounting I’m sure they can tell you the charge. I used the company card.”</p>
<p>“That won't be necessary, Mr. Castion.”</p>
<p>“You sure? Cause once we leave we’re not coming back. <em>Double jeopardy</em> and all that.”</p>
<p>“Once again!” The man in the middle placed his hands firmly on the table. “<em>This</em> is not a courtroom Mr. Castion.”</p>
<p>“You know can we go into my file and change that. <em>Mr. Castion</em> was my old man and he was a proper cunt. Just call me Jeffery.”</p>
<p>“<em>Noted</em>,” said the woman on the far right, “but before we let you go, do you or Mr. Hastings have any idea where Mr. Anders could have gone?”</p>
<p>Arthur tapped Jeffery on the shoulder.</p>
<p>“<em>Sidebar</em>.”</p>
<p>They huddled. “<em>The Caribbean</em>,” said Arthur.</p>
<p>“<em>Good thinking</em>.” They broke. “You know, I think I heard him say something about an early holiday in the Caribbean.”</p>
<p>“When?”</p>
<p>“Recently. <em>Very </em>recently. And I mean who can blame him? New York in the winter is one bitter bitch. Hell, after we’re done here I may even book myself a flight and join him. Be sure to send you all a postcard.”</p>
<p>“That’ll be all gentlemen,” said the man in the middle, “<em>please go</em>.”</p>
<p>“Ah, are you sure? Don’t wanna know how many times I took a piss this morning? Or how many times I shake it? What about the name of the first woman that blew me?”</p>
<p>Arthur stood and pulled Jeffery out of his seat.</p>
<p>“Here, I’ll tell you: Three, two, Marian Falls. See how cooperative I’m being.”</p>
<p>Arthur all but had to drag Jeffery out of the conference room.</p>
<p>“And you see, my friend,” Jeffery straightened out his suit jacket, “that’s how it’s done.”</p>
<p>They walked to the elevator and got inside, beginning their ride up to the twentieth floor.</p>
<p>“You didn't need to do all that.”</p>
<p>“What the fuck are you talking about, Arthur? I’m not going down for that little piss-ant. Are you? <em>Are you</em>?”</p>
<p>“<em>No</em>.”</p>
<p>“Exactly,” Jeffery stopped the elevator, “listen, we were all at Katz last night. All of a sudden, middle of my drink, place gets shut down and we’re given the boot. I lost track of just about everybody, wound up walking home. First thing I did, second I got into the office this morning, was put a playbook together. It doesn't look good for ol’ Riley, lemme tell ya. Nobody saw the fucker leave. Maybe he got a hangover. Maybe he got mugged takin’ a piss in the alley. Or maybe, just maybe, he took a shot at one of Katz goon squad and got a meat hook up his ass. I don't know, though. <em>Nobody </em>does. It’s like I say, I’m not making an appointment with the Doctors over him. Riley was an imp that didn't know when to shut the fuck up. <em>Everyone</em> knew it. Wouldn’t be surprised if they ransacked his place and found some fuckin’ pictures of little girls on his laptop. We just gotta play this mellow, Arthur.” Jeffery set the elevator in motion again. “Now come have that bagel I saved ya and go about your shit as normal. I got your back. You got mine?”</p>
<p>Arthur nodded, “I got your back.”</p>
<p>They arrived on the twentieth floor, but Jeffery put his hand out and stopped Arthur from getting off.</p>
<p>“Arthur… you’ve been taking your Joy, <em>right</em>? Just… blink twice for me, and set my mind at ease.” Arthur blinked once, then again. “That’s my boy.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span class="u">
    <b>Set Four Interlude:</b>
    <b> Percival</b>
  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Arthur stood on stage at The Hippo Club. Aside from Buschwick, who was sitting in a booth four rows back, the place was empty. There was a bit Arthur had scribbled down in the first composition book he’d ever filled up that he never once performed. He’d tried a few times to get it going at home or in the dressing room, but it never worked out. Arthur always froze. He figured with Buschwick it might be different.</p>
<p>“People used to say my brother was quite dim. They did that to be polite. I know everyone called him a retard when I wasn’t around. I used the word a few times myself, though lucky for me Percival almost never remembered. I mean, yeah, there was that stretch of about six or seven weeks where he wouldn't eat anything that wasn't the color yellow. So he more less survived on bananas, corn, and anything I could drown in cheese. But I don't think that made him a retard. He was two years older than me, but it was fairly hard to tell. We were about the same height… maybe he was an inch or two taller. I only know of one person who’s ever confused us, and that would be old lady Gibson that lived at the edge of our block. She was practically fucking blind though and couldn't tell the difference between her own bloody dentures and a crab.</p>
<p>So I don't think the classification of retard quite applies to him. He spoke with a lisp, sure, and it took him a few minutes to get out what he was trying to say. He got frustrated very easily, especially if it was a really pressing thing he had to say as it pertained to the conversation. If you said to him that you didn't think the Terminator could beat the shit out of Robocop in a five round bare knuckle boxing main event at the 02, well then he would be fuming. And when he got pissed that only made things worse, because he wanted to just spit it out quickly. So he’d be just sitting there, getting a few words in, then having to restart and try to rework the sentence so as to not involve the word that was giving him trouble. Then by the time he got it all out, the conversation had moved on.</p>
<p>I felt bad for him, I did. That’s why I spent nearly every waking moment shadowing him around. We went to the drugstore together and swiped barbecue crisps from the nasty Pakistani man behind the counter that always kicked his dog when it didn't piss quick enough. We snuck in rounds at the bowling alley after hours, because the girl that worked the last shift, Janey, had a massive crush on me. So she’d let us in, get us a few ice-cold cokes, and once Percival got on a roll—because he was a damn bowling prodigy I have no idea how he got so bloody good at the game—I’d finger her behind the concession counter. Janey was a real nice girl, I hear she wound up settling down with a dentist and having five kids.</p>
<p>I remember once we were on vacation in Paris and I was able to talk our parents into letting us off on our own for the afternoon because they really wanted to get couples massages and we really wanted to stuff our faces with cinnamon flavored pastries. So we were off on the streets, zipping through stalls and markets. We walked by a few flower shops and Percival got a terrible fright over the bees. He never liked them and I haven’t the faintest inclination as to why, he was never stung once. Eventually we wound up on a footbridge overlooking a parade. There were these enormous floats being strung by and I swear when I looked down over the side of the bridge I saw clouds. I thought we were in the air, on a floating city.</p>
<p>You know there were these two absolute weirdos that came up behind us. I turned my back on Percival and here came this man and this woman that looked nearly identical. Like maybe the man was just flat-chested and cross-dressing. One of ‘em I can't remember which was holding a sandwich board with all these tally marks on it…”</p>
<p>Arthur trailed off. He stopped breathing and the lights in his eyes started powering down.</p>
<p>Buschwick stood up and called to Arthur, “What happened to Percival?”</p>
<p>Arthur rebooted. “… They were just holding this board with all these weird tally marks and then the man… or was it the woman… asked me to flip a coin. They asked me to flip this little… silver eagle and… I think I did. And it came up heads. And this seemed to displease them and then they walked off. Never saw them again. I turned around and Percival was gone. I think they said he… fell off the bridge.”</p>
<p>Blood began to pour down from Arthur’s nose and he collapsed on the stage. His body started convulsing and Buschwick ran and jumped up on the stage. She picked his head up and turned him on his side. She took her shirt off and placed it under his head.</p>
<p>Arthur stopped shaking after a minute. He tried to turn and get up but Buschwick stopped him.</p>
<p>“You need to take it easy, Arthur. What the fuck just happened to you? Your nose started bleeding and—”</p>
<p>“I think I pushed him.”</p>
<p>“<em>Pushed</em>…”</p>
<p>“Percival. I don't think he fell off the floating city. I think I pushed him.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. On The Company Card</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Arthur and Megan go on a date.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u">
    <b>Send in the Clowns (Arthur)</b>
  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span class="u">
    <b>December 17</b>
  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Arthur had made an eight o’clock reservation at <em>Zion</em>: an upscale fish restaurant in Greenwich Village. He’d made it back in September, because they took their namesake to heart, and getting in took about as long as it would for one to walk to the Holy Land from Manhattan. The interior was all white and gold, with marble floors and lots of pillars. The bar was packed with more than a few familiar faces, namely Oliver Starkey, most of the <em>Branding</em> Committee, and the entire <em>Advertisement</em> Board. They were fresh off the clock and still in their suits, all huddled up around Starkey like he held the nuclear football and was contemplating Sweden’s nuclear obliteration.</p>
<p>There was an in-house band—comprised mostly of cellists and violinists—on the second floor balcony playing soft, classical music. Arthur and Megan were guided to their table through the throngs of a particular caliber of patron: the prestigious penthouse floor sort; the ones who only ever leave the confines of their wine cellars once a year to sample whatever peasant food is most in style.</p>
<p>Megan wore a strapped, black dress that didn't mesh with the decor, and got more than a few bemused looks from the rabble for it. Arthur thought she glowed bright enough to blind; her tiny hands tugging him along. At the table Arthur pulled the seat out for her, then pushed her in. He tucked a stray strand of her long, straight blonde hair behind her head before sitting down. Arthur had done everything within his power to make the night special. Megan looked so beautiful that if she’d asked Arthur to take his butter knife and slice up every posh prick in the joint, he would've without a second of hesitation.</p>
<p>“<em>Arthur</em>…” Megan hid behind the menu and nodded her head in the direction of Starkey and his <em>Marketing</em> entourage.</p>
<p>“Well I don't know how they’re paying,” Arthur revealed a small black card emblazoned with the Oasis owl, “<em>I </em>have the company card.”</p>
<p>Megan scrunched up her nose when she laughed. She made Arthur smile in the simplest ways. Without Ollie, the illusion of being somewhere else, perhaps in another point of time, would've been complete. However, Arthur wouldn't let the presence of tacky suits and cheap aftershave distort the image too much. All it meant was Arthur would have to try just a bit harder.</p>
<p>“I’ve never been in a place like this before,” said Megan.</p>
<p>A busboy came over and filled their glasses with sparkling water.</p>
<p>“A place like what?”</p>
<p>“Look at these people…”</p>
<p>“They’re fossils.”</p>
<p>“<em>Arthur!</em>” Megan playfully kicked him under the table. “<em>Not so loud</em>.”</p>
<p>“Oh, they’re not paying me any mind. My words are too pedestrian and out of season to even be picked up by their esteemed ears. Don't worry, most of them are just waiting for the Rapture so they can make a good excuse to die.”</p>
<p>Megan shook her head and returned to the menu. “<em>Arthur Hastings</em>… what am I going to do with you?”</p>
<p>“<em>Whatever you like</em>…”</p>
<p>They locked eyes and Megan blushed terribly.</p>
<p>Arthur looked at the menu himself. He was starving, the poppyseed bagel with cream cheese that Jeffery had saved for him only sustained him for about an hour. Arthur hadn't felt comfortable getting anything else to eat. It proved impossible to escape from the feeling that he was being watched by people he couldn't see. They were hidden behind the walls, inside the printers, above and below every street corner, and in-between the fabric that held the very existence of his world together. Arthur knew he had a tail: <em>Spooks</em>. He just didn't know <em>what</em> they wanted him for.</p>
<p>Maybe Riley’s aggressive sales tactics truly were a landslide breakthrough for the company and Jeffery’s Bamonte ruse fell apart instantaneously like a to-scale model of Fort Douaumont made entirely out of playing cards in the middle of a tsunami. Arthur hadn't rule out the possibility that Ridgewell could have did him in, having not felt confident enough in his pitch to pin the whole thing on Anton, and was therefore tying up loose ends before his own extended vacation to South America. Then there was the wild card: Anton himself. The head of R&amp;D Management could barely plug in a desk lamp, but Arthur knew better than to count him out. After all, Verloc had managed to survive as long as he had through some means, and if it wasn't black magic that only left spook intervention, because nobody was <em>that</em> lucky. Arthur couldn't help but chuckle, though.</p>
<p>“What's so funny?”</p>
<p>“The man couldn't even plug in his fucking desk lamp…”</p>
<p>“Who?”</p>
<p>“Anton.”</p>
<p>“He couldn't plug in his desk lamp?”</p>
<p>“<em>No</em>… he… he just kept flicking the switch… for like two hours…” Arthur hadn't realized his laughter had him on the verge of tears. He rubbed his eyes and composed himself. “I’m sorry… I just remembered the stupid fuc… just the stupid look on his face. It was incredible.”</p>
<p>“You should've taken a picture.”</p>
<p>“I should’ve… I’m terrible with that stuff, though. I never take the good pictures.”</p>
<p>Their waiter came over and took their order. Arthur ordered the same as Megan: the swordfish stuffed with crab meat in a light lemon sauce.</p>
<p>“Can I ask you a work question Arthur? Just one. I don't want shop talk to takeover the whole night.”</p>
<p>“Of course.”</p>
<p>“What’s the scoop on Riley?”</p>
<p>“How do you mean?”</p>
<p>“<em>Well</em>… is it true what’s going around about him?”</p>
<p>Arthur leaned in. “That depends, what <em>is </em>going around about him?”</p>
<p>“He committed suicide.”</p>
<p>Arthur’s eyes went wide. “He what?”</p>
<p>“He drove his car off the GW last night, I guess after we all left Katz. The wreck was so bad they couldn't even find his body, like maybe the horribly mutated fish that live in the Hudson ate him up, or he was swept away into the Atlantic.”</p>
<p>“<em>Did</em>… was there a reason?”</p>
<p>“Yeah, apparently he had all this… child pornography on his laptop,” Megan recoiled with disgust, “I always knew he was a vile, heinous little bastard.”</p>
<p>Arthur sat back in his seat. His eyes darted around the restaurant, then returned to Megan. “<em>Yeah</em>… I had my reservations too. Just never would've thought… all <em>that</em>.”</p>
<p>“I’m sorry I even brought it up. <em>Ugh</em>. I hope Management keeps a tight lid on the whole thing. Something like that would not look good for us.”</p>
<p>“I’m sure they’ve got a whole cleanup crew sorting the whole thing out.”</p>
<p>Megan continued talking, but as much as Arthur tried to remain focused, the whole mirage had come crashing down and landed in a heap of cinders at his feet. He felt the urge to take Megan and flee the whole scene, but that wouldn't look normal. That wasn't how the night was supposed to go, and therefore everything had to remain in its right place. Arthur had to remain seated, despite the clambering voices in his head trying to claw out of his skin and take the next plane to Brussels. He had to remain invested in conversation, despite the fact that he’d heard Megan’s rant about her older brother’s dimwitted wife before.</p>
<p>“… the bitch uses his credit card to buy new swimwear and meanwhile she’s got like two kids in college and one who’s manically depressed and needs to see a four figure shrink… I don't understand how he still lives with her, he should just take the kids and leave…”</p>
<p>Arthur had to remind himself to keep breathing. In through his nose and out through his mouth. He had to keep his leg from shaking and his eyes from wandering too much to every passing suit. When the food came, he forced himself to eat slowly, despite the fact that the flounder was very good and the crab meat wasn't loaded down with breadcrumbs so as to detract from the whole meal. It wouldn't have appeared out of place for him to scarf the whole thing down, but it would have been rude.</p>
<p>“How’s Tyreen?”</p>
<p>Arthur made sure he chewed extra slowly. “She surprises me every day with just how… positive she is. I mean, I wouldn't blame her if she was ever bitter or spiteful but… <em>nope</em>. To have something like that happen so late in her life… I mean I can't even imagine how she does it. She’s been handling everything so well. So much better than I think I would, or anyone for that matter.”</p>
<p>“That’s so great to hear Arthur.”</p>
<p>“Thank you for asking.”</p>
<p>“Does she know you’re…”</p>
<p>“Yes. I don't know how, but she does. <em>Tyreen the Mystic</em> is what I’m gonna call her when she becomes a magician… or a Vegas card shark.”</p>
<p>“And how does she feel about it?”</p>
<p>“Well she wants to meet you. She came up to me just last week and said ‘<em>Dad when are you gonna let me meet your girlfriend?’</em>.”</p>
<p>“And what did you say?”</p>
<p>“I didn't say anything I just locked her in the basement. That reminds me I should get a to-go bag for her.”</p>
<p>“<em>Arthur!</em> I’m being serious.”</p>
<p>“I said that I would talk to you about it tonight. But there’s no pressure, don't worry about Tyreen. She’s just got a mind for elaborate planning, that’s all.”</p>
<p>“Is she already planning our wedding?”</p>
<p>“The wedding? <em>Please</em>. She finished the reception Tuesday and has moved on to where we’re doing the baby shower.”</p>
<p>“And? Where <em>are </em>we doing the baby shower?”</p>
<p>“You see if you meet her you can't encourage her like that.”</p>
<p>“Why not? And what’s this <em>if </em>shit?”</p>
<p>“<em>Language</em>.”</p>
<p>“Nuh-uh, only I’m allowed to do that. You know what, I have the perfect idea.”</p>
<p>“Does it involve the three of us going to Coney Island over the weekend?”</p>
<p>“<em>Maybe</em>.”</p>
<p>“We’ll have to take a raincheck, unfortunately. This weekend is Rachel’s.”</p>
<p>“<em>Oh</em>…”</p>
<p>“<em>Yeah</em>…”</p>
<p>“What’s… what’s that situation like? <em>If you</em>—if you want to even talk about it.”</p>
<p>“We have joint custody. Rachel has this utter tool sharing our old flat with her, and she tries to act like they aren't sleeping in the same bed, one on top of the other. I know you hear my sets, even though they’re crude. I <em>hate</em> her. I don't usually tell people <em>why</em>, though. Most just assume. Zane knows. He’s the only one. And he’s the only one because I came to him one night and asked if after I killed her, I could hide the body in his tub for a few hours. He was able to talk me out of it, at the time, but there really isn't a single instance where I don't see her and consider <em>how</em>. But the <em>why </em>of it. I’ll be brief, because it's not really appropriate dinner conversation. Rachel is the reason Tyreen is in a wheelchair.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. He Was Always Smiling</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A brief look at childhood with Arthur; Arthur and Tyreen play hooky.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u">
    <b>Send in the Clowns (Arthur)</b>
  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span class="u">
    <b>Childhood With Arthur Interlude (Age 10)</b>
  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Arthur sat in front of the mirror, eyes closed. His mother, Dorris, was applying pasty white makeup over his eyelids. She herself, though unintentionally, looked quite clownish. Between the purple eye shadow, sixteen layers of blush, and her generally pale complexion, all his mother was missing was the red nose that went <em>honk</em> when you squeezed it.</p>
<p>Dorris, as she twisted Arthur’s head this way and that, was an overbearing woman. Not maliciously so, but enough in the sense that she didn't so much nurture as smother. Arthur was fairly confident he could apply his own makeup, namely because he already had on several occasions with moderate success. Though no matter of convincing, finagling, or outright bribing would stop Dorris from pinching and poking him.</p>
<p>“<em>Mum</em>,” he would go.</p>
<p>Dorris would abruptly <em>shush </em>him. “<em>Quiet honey, just gotta fix around your eyes…</em>”</p>
<p>Arthur had thought for most of his life, especially before the growth spurt, that he would grow up to be a clown, performing at birthday parties: making balloon animals, scaring the kids when no one was watching, and then making off with the cake. Percival wanted to go into finance, or so Arthur assumed given his penchant for hoarding the fake money you get from board games and charging interest on even the smallest of loans.</p>
<p>When Dorris finished, Arthur opened his eyes and glared into the mirror. His mother stood triumphantly behind him. Arthur smiled, because she did work hard, and she likely meant well, but sometimes he did want to remind her that he wasn't a mannequin, and her nails were awfully sharp.</p>
<p>Dorris left the room and Arthur was relegated to his own devices. There was a red and black tuxedo left out for him from two seasons ago that just barely fit. He squeezed into it, once again returning to the mirror and glossing over himself. When he was sure his mother wouldn't pop back in, he took one of her makeup brushes and applied an extra layer of dark green to his lips.</p>
<p>Hamlyn Village was set for a street fair, and Arthur had been volunteered to perform on the little stage that got set up the day prior right outside his house. There were a variety of other acts, from a magician with a large, twirly mustache, to a burly man that swallowed fake swords. Arthur knew some people in Wellington Wells thought they were freaks, and that they shouldn't be allowed to crawl up from their holes and coexist amongst the good meaning and well-mannered common folk of the Village. Arthur didn't consider them petty vagrants or beggars with ill-intent. They were a gaggle of showmen with stale bits and not enough ingenuity. Arthur considered himself the headliner, and vastly more talented.</p>
<p>He walked down to his living room, where his father was tending to Percival, who had third degree burns all over his right arm.</p>
<p>“<em>What happened to you Percy?</em>” Arthur asked.</p>
<p>His father grunted. “<em>Stuck ‘is hand in boiling water</em>.”</p>
<p>Percy grimaced as the bandage wrapped around his hand. “<em>I thought the eggs were done</em>.”</p>
<p>“<em>Well isn't that why you have your brother</em>?” Their father walloped Percy over the head. “<em>So you don't have to do the bloody thinking</em>.”</p>
<p>Percy looked hurt and grabbed the back of his head. Their father looked caught between brushing it off— telling Percy to stop being such a fairy because he didn't even hit him that hard—and playing it cool—walking off, but making sure Percy know he’d come back and give him another if he didn't knock the bullshit off.</p>
<p>Arthur took to the table, where a small white plate sat with three hardboiled eggs on it. There was a fork and the salt shaker off to the side. Percy walked over and sat opposite Arthur, his eyes lingering as Arthur sliced and egg in half and took a bite.</p>
<p>“<em>How’d I do</em>?”</p>
<p>Arthur, mouth full, nodded.</p>
<p>“<em>What</em>…” Percy stopped. He started fumbling with the letter ‘B’, and caught himself. Percy didn't appreciate help, even though Arthur knew what he was getting at. Percy liked to make his way around to it on his own terms. “<em>What… Bit… are you gonna start with</em>?” Percy took a few deep breaths.</p>
<p>Arthur smiled, digging into his pocket for a small red book. He flipped through several pages. “The one about the stuffed unicorn…”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span class="u">
    <b>December 18</b>
  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Arthur and Tyreen sat at opposite sides of a wooden table in <em>Joe’s Coffee Company</em>, near Central Park. Tyreen had shifted from her wheelchair, and was in the process of ordering an espresso macchiato. Arthur ordered 3 of the glazed, apple cider donuts—they were almost out of season. He ordered the seasonal house coffee, and figured if he didn't like it, Megan would. Then he could just order and espresso himself, because he couldn't have his daughter go around thinking she drank stronger coffee than he did.</p>
<p>When the waiter left, Tyreen leaned over the table, glowing with mischievous glee. “So…”</p>
<p>“One day.”</p>
<p>“Oh—come on! Let’s go to Coney Island.”</p>
<p>“Next weekend,” said Arthur, much to Tyreen’s dismay.</p>
<p>“I’m not learning anything anyway…”</p>
<p>“Yeah, well… still have to go. You get to play hooky one day. Sore throats don’t last that long.”</p>
<p>“You should've let me make the call.”</p>
<p>“No…” the waiter brought over the donuts “… it’s a good thing I didn’t.”</p>
<p>Tyreen rested her head on the table, admiring the donut like it had been lost at seas for ten years. “Can I at least come to your show later?”</p>
<p>“Maybe.”</p>
<p>Tyreen jutted her head up. “<em>Maybe</em>?”</p>
<p>“We’ll see.”</p>
<p>“<em>We’ll see</em>?” Tyreen leaned over the table in an attempt to poke Arthur. “Can’t you just meet me half way here?”</p>
<p>Arthur grew a smile at the sight of Megan walking up to the cafe. “Tyreen…”</p>
<p>“Yes, yes, I’ll…” Tyreen turned to get a good look at Megan and slowly lowered her jaw. “<em>Damn</em>… she’s short.”</p>
<p>“<em>Behave</em>.”</p>
<p>“Shouldn't have picked such a public place… I may never get another opportunity.”</p>
<p>Megan walked in and up to their table. She leaned down and gave Arthur a kiss on the cheek. The <em>Spooks </em>hadn't followed them home; dinner had gone according to plan. Nothing was deemed out of place, at least for the time being. Eventually, Arthur knew he’d have to go back to work. Anton’s Christmas party was fast approaching, and while Jeffrey mused over his execution, Arthur had to figure out his best play much more methodically. What Ridgewell had said was true, he didn't like Anton—barely anybody did. The Doctors despised him, and Arthur was sure if they could've devised a way to suffocate him to death with a sandwich bag, they already would’ve a dozen times over. That didn't mean setting him up for a stooge would be any shade of easy.</p>
<p>Tyreen held her arms out wide. “Come on, come on! Gimmie some sugar!”</p>
<p>Megan laughed and went over to hug Tyreen. She wrapped her arms tightly around Megan and rocked her side to side. “<em>God</em>… damn. You are <em>so </em>small—”</p>
<p>“<em>Tyreen—</em>”</p>
<p>Tyreen let go of Megan and looked up at her. “That’s not a bad thing. And you smell <em>so </em>good and,” she took hold of Megan’s hair, “and who does your hair, it’s fabulous.”</p>
<p>Megan couldn't hold back her red cheeks and girlish giggles. “<em>Oh my</em>…where has Arthur been keeping you?”</p>
<p>“Locked in the basement. Didn’t he tell you?”</p>
<p>Megan sat next to Tyreen. “He <em>did</em>…”</p>
<p>Tyreen grabbed hold of her donut. She looked to Arthur. “Can I eat now?”</p>
<p>Arthur nodded and Tyreen immediately dug in, ripping the donut apart ferociously. He looked to Megan and for a brief moment, everything clicked into place just the way he wanted them to.</p>
<p>“I’m…” Arthur chuckled to himself, in disbelief of what he was about to say. “I’m gonna do an old bit of mine tonight… at Katz.”</p>
<p>“Really?” Megan raised her eyebrows. “How old?”</p>
<p>“Haven't done it in a real long time…” Arthur remembered going up on stage at the street fair when he was ten. The memory didn't stay for long. The weirdos and their coin toss flooded in. They absorbed every memory of Percival he had. “… it’s, uh… about this stuffed unicorn…”</p>
<p>Tyreen finished her donut and began licking her fingers. “Can I come, please?” She turned to Megan and threw on a pair of wide, puppy-dog eyes. “Come on… I’ll behave, and you won't even know I’m there. I won’t talk, blink… <em>please</em>…”</p>
<p>Megan looked at Arthur. “Well… you need to blink, sweetie… <em>but</em>…”</p>
<p>Tyreen swiveled back to Arthur. “Dad…”</p>
<p>“<em>Sure</em>.” The word slipped out of his mouth before he had half a second to think. Tyreen nearly flew out of her seat. Megan struggled to contain her, but seemed to enjoy it.</p>
<p>Arthur’s mind briefly shifted back to Percival. The stuffed unicorn bit had always gotten a rise out of him. The day of the street fair was no different. Dorris had always remarked that Arthur knew just the thing to say to make anyone, at any time, laugh. <em>“He’s gifted that way, my boy… oh wouldn't you just look at him? He’s always smiling.”</em> And that was mostly true. He was always smiling. Just not always in the way his mother had thought.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. House Keeping</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Arthur confronts Zoë, past and present.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u">
    <b>Send in the Clowns (Arthur)</b>
  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span class="u">
    <b>Katz Hotel Interlude: House Keeping (4 Years Earlier)</b>
  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Arthur and Zoë lay on a queen sized bed in a hotel owned and operated by the man that occasionally let people refer to him as Katz. The room was red and there was a lime green portrait on the wall in front of them, depicting a man and woman whose tongues had transformed into parasitic dragons, interlocked and trying to devour the other. Arthur looked down at Zoë, her eyes glued to the ceiling, hands folded together on her stomach.</p>
<p>“Got any good ghost stories?” Arthur asked, connecting the freckles along Zoë’s thighs with his index finger.</p>
<p>“<em>Nothing but</em>… the hotel is alive.”</p>
<p>“That the official line?” Arthur sunk his hand between her legs.</p>
<p>Zoë clamped down on her lower lip, trying to retain her train of thought. “It’s what Katz says.”</p>
<p>“And you believe him?”</p>
<p>Zoë started letting out short, quick breaths. “Isn't he the Devil?”</p>
<p>Arthur twisted his hand. “You’re asking?”</p>
<p>“<em>Yes</em>.” Zoë settled down on the bed. She reached a hand up and cupped Arthur’s cheek.</p>
<p>“No… I don’t think he is.” Arthur leaned down and kissed Zoë; once on her lips and once on the tip of her nose. “Adjacent, sure… but you can do better than that.”</p>
<p>“The hotel <em>is </em>alive.”</p>
<p>“Of course it is,” Arthur sat up, leaning against the back of the bed, “why wouldn't it be?”</p>
<p>“You think you can do better? You don’t even work here.” Zoë curled up in Arthur’s lap.</p>
<p>“Neither do you.”</p>
<p>Zoë looked up at him. “How do you figure that?”</p>
<p>“You have no job description… you don't even have a job title. You’re just <em>Schwick</em>.”</p>
<p>“Tsk-tsk… <em>Buschwick.</em>”</p>
<p>“The difference being?”</p>
<p>“Jake and Jacob. Bill and William. Richard and… <em>Dick</em>. I like one more than the other. Last two fuckers to call me <em>Schwick</em> have been rendered <em>permanently</em> indisposed,” she added a proud emphasis to the ‘<em>permanently</em>’.</p>
<p>“<em>I see</em>…” Arthur cracked a smile, looking back at the portrait. “… but why Buschwick?”</p>
<p>“Arthur…”</p>
<p>“Sounds like the name of some sleazy cab driver…”</p>
<p>Zoë straddled Arthur, her face up to his, lips dangerously close. “Don’t read into the name, <em>darling</em>.”</p>
<p>“I won’t… but it makes no fucking sense and neither does that portrait.”</p>
<p>“I brought you here to shut your mind off, stupid.”</p>
<p>“I can tell you from experience, I’ve been trying for almost fifteen years, it’s not possible.”</p>
<p>Zoë gripped the sides of Arthur’s head tightly and tilted it backwards. “You just haven’t really been trying.”</p>
<p>“<em>Zoë</em>…”</p>
<p>“<em>Arthur</em>… you don’t have to try and pronounce the dots.”</p>
<p>“I didn't think I was.”</p>
<p>“You always have.”</p>
<p>Zoë pried open Arthur’s mouth open and brushed her fingers over his teeth. “Oh how those Germans waste you… it’s such a pity.”</p>
<p>Arthur placed his hands firmly on Zoë’s lower back. “Didn't you know we were taking over the world?”</p>
<p>“Arthur… <em>please</em>… Oasis could barely take over the corner of a city block. You know who’ll take over the world before you?”</p>
<p>“Delight me.”</p>
<p>Zoë brought her lips down to his left ear and whispered, “<em>Sonny Blue and his Superhuman Crew</em>.”</p>
<p>“Once he get’s out… I’m sure you’re right.”</p>
<p>Zoë kissed Arthur deeply; his nails digging into her lower back. She pulled away. “When do I get to meet your Tyreen?”</p>
<p>“I need time… to get her more comfortable around here.”</p>
<p>“All I give you is time…”</p>
<p>“And I promise <em>all I</em> need is a drop more.”</p>
<p>“Okay…” Zoë kissed him, biting his lip and drawing a little blood “… but you know how <em>greedy</em>, I am, don’t you <em>Mr. Monster</em>?”</p>
<p>“<em>I do</em>.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span class="u">
    <b>December 18 (Present)</b>
  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Klub Katz had a backroom that most patrons weren’t aware of. Behind the first floor bar, down a short hallway to the left, was an entirely separate lounge area, albeit one with a maximum capacity of roughly one hundred people. There were booths and leather couches set up around a small stage. Despite the size, it was a lucrative platform to hold; for as long as Katz deemed you worthy of possessing it.</p>
<p>Arthur didn't know who else performed in the backroom, and for that matter what they did. From what he saw of Katz’s associates, he figured staging live executions couldn't be far off rom it. A troupe of apathetic clowns, however, Arthur was sure would be a lively, new attraction.</p>
<p>Arthur didn't quite understand Ed’s infatuation with what had started out as a weekly escapade in an empty conference room after office hours. A gaggle of Bobbies, cheap, cold beer, and whatever food could be scrounged up from the cubicle peddler’s desks. Arthur wasn't interested in turning his standup into anything more than a momentary distraction. He’d made that decision years past. The dream of walking on stage at Madison Square Garden in purple leather fell off the side of the floating city along with whatever else had been in his pockets that day.</p>
<p>Ed was high on the thrill of the crowd, and Arthur knew there was little that could get in the way of dissuading him. He was a natural at it. Being a Bobby didn't fit as well. Arthur found it easy to sympathize with him. Ed was nothing if not reliable and that wasn't something Arthur could say about most people.</p>
<p>Zane had been a mate of his ever since he’d come to America; the two had found common ground in being relative strangers in a bizarre land that didn't adhere to basic grammatical structure. The only problem with Zane came from the fact that Arthur knew more than he did, and that extra knowledge was burning a hole in his pocket. Arthur meandered on through the day, wondering to himself what Kira Wulf would do with the whistleblower, or the stand in, once they were revealed. Whatever punishment came down from Management wouldn’t get doled out until all parties were far away from New York; preferably somewhere much more secluded, quiet, and arid. He figured more and more that Anton was getting fingered for it all, regardless of what he did. It was all too perfect an opportunity for it to go to waste all because he wouldn't step up to bat for the Doctors.</p>
<p>When Arthur, Tyreen, and Megan arrived at Klub Katz, the place was empty and the time was a quarter to five. Megan and Tyreen had taken well to one another, better than Arthur had ever imagined they would. Arthur hadn't been paying much attention to them, though. He looked over periodically and saw them smiling and laughing; that was enough. Arthur found it hard to focus, especially when Buschwick gazed down at him from the second floor with a look in her eye that communicated the two of them had business to hash out.</p>
<p>Arthur walked up the stairs and followed Buschwick into the VIP area. They sat down and for a beat Arthur couldn’t tell if Billy was set to come up behind him with garrote wire.</p>
<p>“You’re awfully jittery…” Buschwick crossed her legs, seeming to delight in the state of unease Arthur was in; she’d grown a bit cold to him.</p>
<p>“My daughter’s here.”</p>
<p>“I know. I saw.”</p>
<p>“You’re upset.”</p>
<p>Buschwick didn't bother hiding her overabundance of displeasure, or try to dispute it. A snarl rippled across her face. “It was quite a state you left me in, the other night.”</p>
<p>“I didn’t—”</p>
<p>Buschwick raised her hand to stop him from regurgitating the obvious. “None of what you meant, didn’t mean, or considered meaning is relevant, Arthur. I don’t think you value our friendship anymore.”</p>
<p>“Bullshit.”</p>
<p>“That’s what I mean.”</p>
<p>“<em>Zoë</em>…”</p>
<p>“I wouldn’t, if I were you, Arthur… your daughter’s here… <em>remember</em>?”</p>
<p>“I’ve done something… <em>terrible</em>.” Arthur didn’t ask, he knew already.</p>
<p>“Yes, you have.”</p>
<p>“And you’ve become envious.”</p>
<p>“I’ve <em>always </em>been envious, Arthur.” Buschwick didn't speak with venom. She spoke with absolute certainty. Arthur wasn't in a position to change anything. “You disappoint me,” there was a strong of tears behind her words, “in ways you cannot even imagine. How easily you have forgotten who holds you and all your secrets. Who’s seen you,” her voice cracked, “<em>as yourself</em>.”</p>
<p>Arthur stood. “You want us gone?”</p>
<p>“I want <em>you </em>gone… but that will come later.” There was a commotion downstairs: the rest of the troupe had arrived. “Go, Arthur. You’re under the proprietor’s protection here. You, your daughter… <em>her</em>.”</p>
<p>Arthur stepped away. His mind had finally left him. He walked downstairs and found Ed, Petyr, and Zane taking in the joint.</p>
<p>“Santiago’s burned all the bleedin’ feeling from his tongue, the twat,” Zane brandished a long, brown bottle of Don Julio 1942 sipping tequila. “I’ll cover us tonight. Mark the occasion proper like.”</p>
<p>Ed noticed Arthur. “Well we got almost everyone here now… let’s get glasses and head in back. Megan here?”</p>
<p>Arthur nodded, hesitantly.</p>
<p>Buschwick came to leer over the second floor railing.</p>
<p>Ed leaned in close to Arthur. “Why’s security looking down at us like a pharaoh… ready to reign down frogs and locusts?”</p>
<p>“The pharaohs didn't summon the plagues… <em>God</em> did,” Petyr interjected.</p>
<p>“Point still stands… they having a funeral in here or something? Cause I’ve tried to liven up wakes before… doesn't always go over well.”</p>
<p>“We’ll be fine,” said Arthur.</p>
<p>“Well, I’ll take out the casket full of shaving cream bit regardless… just in case.”</p>
<p>The troupe moved in the back.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. Chrysalis</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Arthur performs at Klub Katz.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u">
    <b>Send in the Clowns (Arthur)</b>
  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span class="u">
    <b>Ariana With the Pink Hair Interlude (1 Year Prior)</b>
  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Arthur got off the elevator and stepped out onto the twenty first floor, which was a part of <em>Mergers</em>. The time was five after eleven at night and the floor was dark. The offices were locked up and the cubicles were just as orderly as they’d been at close of business four hours prior. Arthur moved around to the far end of the floor, where the red and blue neon lights from a soda billboard lit up several window-facing cubicles. There he saw the rest of the Bobbies, though they’d changed and looked more presentable, whereas he still looked to be on the clock.</p>
<p>“You working the graveyard, Hastings?” Ed asked. He’d adjusted the spinning chair he was sitting in to be as high as possible.</p>
<p>“No… not at least that I’m aware of.”</p>
<p>“Well, shit changes… come on,” Ed slid over the chair next to him and Arthur sat down.</p>
<p>“We’re still one short,” said Petyr.</p>
<p>“Yeah… <em>The Leech</em>… where’d he get that one again?” Ed looked around but no one had a clue. “Alright, fuck it then.”</p>
<p>Zane was going through the desk he was currently sitting at. “Nothin’ but junk… I swear these bunch of paperclip mules are the most boring fucking—<em>AH!</em>” Zane pulled out a pack of black cherry flavored <em>Beemans </em>chewing gum. He waved the pack around, holding it out to Arthur. “I take it all back… would you look at this? Told ya, it was only a matter of time ‘for your favorite gum came back in style.”</p>
<p>Arthur took the pack and looked it over. “Beemans never did black cherry.”</p>
<p>“Arthur, for the love of christ man, don’t look in the whore’s mouth or however the fuck that saying is supposed to go. Maybe it’s a knock off, maybe <em>someone’s</em> bringing it back, just take a bloody piece.”</p>
<p>Arthur took a piece and gave the pack back to Zane.</p>
<p>“So, who's going after me?” Ed asked, looking around at the assembled misfits.</p>
<p>“Why are you first?” Asked Petyr.</p>
<p>“Cause I’ve been doing this shit for a good, long minute. Had a slot in Reno, Saturday at nine: prime time. <em>I’m</em> the opener.”</p>
<p>Cassie raised her hand. “And I’ll make sure you don’t close too.”</p>
<p>“What about you Hastings?”</p>
<p>“What about me, Ed?”</p>
<p>“You want the third slot?”</p>
<p>“I’ll be last.” Arthur unwrapped his gum.</p>
<p>“Last?”</p>
<p>“<em>Yeah</em>,” he folded the gum up and stuck it in his mouth.</p>
<p>“Why?”</p>
<p>Arthur started chewing and shrugged. “Cause I got this bit a carnie told me while back about padding the inside of a stuffed unicorn with cram—”</p>
<p>“Oh, I don’t like where this one is headed boyo…” said Zane.</p>
<p>“<em>Yeah</em>,” Arthur concurred, “and that’s the kind of thing you go out with. Like the bit Bernie Mac used to do about his sister’s kids.”</p>
<p>“Alright then…” Ed trailed off as Santiago arrived “… it’s about fucking time.”</p>
<p>“I didn't miss anything,” Santiago plopped down on the edge of a desk.</p>
<p>“I’ll go after Cass,” said Megan.</p>
<p>“Perfect,” Ed turned to Natalie, “<em>mime</em>?”</p>
<p>“Fuck you, Ed.”</p>
<p>“Alright you're forth. Next is Mr. <em>Leech</em>. Then the cab driver, the Irish, and Arthur can go last so I have enough time to get thoroughly shit-faced before he tells us how he fucked a stuffed unicorn filled with grape jelly.”</p>
<p>“Didn't fuck it, wasn't grape jelly, and—” Arthur was cut short by Petyr.</p>
<p>“I’m not a cab driver.”</p>
<p>“So that bit was made-up, then?” Asked Ed.</p>
<p>“Not entirely…”</p>
<p>“So were you or were you not?”</p>
<p>“I drove a cab, but I wasn't a cab driver.”</p>
<p>“That’s just fucking perfect,” said Ed.</p>
<p>Arthur spit out his gum. Eyes drifted over to him. “Lost its flavor,” he said.</p>
<p>“Well we tried,” said Zane.</p>
<p>“Now I was looking around and think we could get in a good slot at <em>The Golden Crown</em>,” said Ed, “down in the village. It’s a pub, but they got space on the second floor. It’s an upscale sorta place, but not overly bourgeois. Delinquents like us’ll attract by virtu of morbid curiosity.”</p>
<p>“That’s not gonna work,” said Arthur.</p>
<p>“Why not?”</p>
<p>“Ariana with the pink hair.”</p>
<p>“Who?”</p>
<p>“The bouncer.”</p>
<p>“Place has a bouncer?”</p>
<p>“Yeah. She’s little.”</p>
<p>“<em>She’s little</em>.”</p>
<p>“Like five five. Can’t weight more than one fifteen.”</p>
<p>“<em>Right</em>…”</p>
<p>“And she’s got pink hair.”</p>
<p>“So I gathered.”</p>
<p>“And a baseball bat.”</p>
<p>“How original.”</p>
<p>“But she can't hold it up to good cause she’s like five three, so she just lunges for your kneecaps.”</p>
<p>“Is this a bit we’re going through right now?”</p>
<p>“I knew her back when she worked this underwater club: <em>The Garden of the Muses</em>. Real freak show, some cat got electrocuted.”</p>
<p>Zane cut in. “Cat as in the <em>animal</em>…”</p>
<p>“No,” Arthur continued, “some fucking guy. I don’t know who it was, he was tipsy and wouldn't leave the piano. Ariana was like five even and she was trying to lug him out back and I offered to help—”</p>
<p>Natalie chuckled, “She keeps getting shorter.”</p>
<p>“That’s the point,” said Arthur.</p>
<p>“So this is <em>was</em> a bit?” Asked Ed.</p>
<p>“No, Ariana is very short. I don’t know how short. But she does have a baseball bat and goes straight for the kneecaps. I know a place we can go.”</p>
<p>“Aren’t you just full of surprises tonight, Hastings. How wonderfully charming,” said Ed.</p>
<p>“Yes,” Megan smiled, “how <em>charming</em>.”</p>
<p>“So, where we headed?” Asked Santiago.</p>
<p>“The Hippo Club,” said Arthur, “we can head over now. I think <em>Mergers </em>has been suspecting the floor has rats for a few months now.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span class="u">
    <b>December 18 (Present)</b>
  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Zane was halfway through his bit about the money he owed his snake trainer.</p>
<p>“<em>I said listen here you fucking goof, I paid you to teach the snake how to constrict. The snake is already a year old and it's barely three feet long, the thing can’t squeeze toothpaste out of the fucking tube. The guy tells me not to worry about it. I can’t get over it, I wanna tell the guy I spent damn near six figures importing the cunt, but then I think he might start looking at me funny. So I’ve got this little green and black asshole of a snake that just likes to sunbathe in the middle of my apartment every hour of the day. He don’t do nothin’ else. I thought these cunts were supposed to be cold blooded, why is he sportin’ a sun tan? And what am I supposed to do? Wait a few years ‘till he’s ten feet? I needed the tooth paste this mornin’, now my breath smells like Marilyn Monroe’s taint. And before you ask, her decomposing taint. And this fucking guy wants to be paid? Not happening. Speaking of which, if you hear thumping in the parking lot… just keep on walking.”</em></p>
<p>Arthur cracked his neck. He saw Tyreen sitting in the crowd, which was void of suits. She was as far away from Earth as Arthur had ever seen her; past Saturn and Neptune, far off in another solar system. Where everyone doted on her like his troupe had. Ed regaled with the story of that one time he drove an unconscious groom all the way from Reno to the Strip after the old boy drank too much and fell off a beached boat, concussing himself and missing the limo to his wedding. Natalie had painted Tyreen’s face to match her own and she couldn't stop giggling heinously with each brush stroke. Santiago had slipped her some Don Julio, not that Arthur would have tried to stop him, but he supposed it was all in the act of sneaking it in.</p>
<p>Zane stepped off stage. The backroom at Klub Katz went silent. Arthur walked to the microphone slowly. He looked at Tyreen and smiled.</p>
<p>“I like to start out every set…” Arthur paused. He considered the day had already gone on for as long as it had, deviating in that moment wouldn't change anything. “… by saying that my ex-wife, and the mother of my <em>only </em>child, is a bitch.” Tyreen’s eyes went wide; she blew out her cheeks laughing. Arthur took that as his cue to continue. “She’s a few other words too. But since my <em>only</em> daughter just so happens to be here, in the audience, I won’t say them. Before I get into this a bit a carnie once told me about a stuffed unicorn and cram, I feel it worth mentioning that I hate The Beach Boys. They got this one song… <em>Wouldn’t It Be Nice</em>, I think it was… and I heard it the night before I proposed and got all jazzed about it and became holy convinced I was making the right decision. And I blame everything bad that’s every happened in the world on them. I bet Mike Love knows where Jimmy Hoffa’s buried, you just gotta ask the bastard. Stub your toe, lose your credit card, can’t afford your rent, marry the last surviving witch from Salem—blame The Beach Boys. I do and it’s been working out pretty good so far.</p>
<p>So, back to the stuffed unicorn. There’s a very common misconception that the practice is sexual in nature, but it’s not. At least not in the version the carnie told me. Granted he was in a rush at the time because where I’m from folks didn't like carnies. I didn't because I thought they weren’t funny and had an inflated ego. Folks from my town thought they carried the plague and a poor education policy. So anyway, back to the unicorn… apparently this guy put jam down the mouth of the thing and used it to open pickle jars… but the more I do this bit and say that fucking sentence out loud… he was probably fucking it, wasn’t he? <em>Yeah</em>… Wellington Welles doesn’t technically exist anymore and thank fucking christ for that…”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span class="u">
    <b>December 19</b>
  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The new day at just been rung in by the time Arthur wheeled Tyreen down the hall towards Rachel’s flat. Tyreen was fading in and out of sleep, the makeup still largely fresh on her. Arthur stopped outside the door and peeled the barely adhesive slip on the door that read a Polish sounding name Arthur had never heard of. Underneath was <em>Hastings</em>, but Arthur didn't think that looked right either so he slapped the slip back on.</p>
<p>Arthur heard a faint shuffling on the other side of the door and leaned in. He knocked lightly and got no response. Arthur gripped the door knob and turned it, opening the flat. He stepped inside, leaving Tyreen in the hall. He took in the ghastly all white decor and nearly splattered it with a toxic shade of green.</p>
<p>Arthur walked through the flat, turning into the master bedroom. Hesaw the man whose name he’d never bothered learning because there wasn't a single page in his entire existence worth skimming. His eyes were glued to a black TV screen. Arthur turned on the light in the room and the man had no reaction to it. Arthur started making his way back to Tyreen when he found Rachel standing a few feet from the doorway.</p>
<p>“This place looks fucking terrible,” said Arthur. He received no reaction. “<em>Rachel</em>?” Arthur approached Rachel and grabbed her by the shoulder, spinning her around. Her eyes were glazed over. “How much Joy have you taken?”</p>
<p>“<em>Arthur</em>?” Rachel didn't seem to know if that was actually his name, or for that matter a word. She didn't seem to be aware of whether she was actually even speaking.</p>
<p>“You’re gone…”</p>
<p>“<em>Arthur</em>,” she looked through him, “have you been taking your Joy?”</p>
<p>“<em>No</em>.” Arthur let go of her and she remained perfectly statuesque. He went back to the door and went to close it.</p>
<p>Rachel leapt to life and ran after the door, holding it open. “<em>Downer</em>…” she hissed.</p>
<p>Arthur shoved her to the ground. “<em>I’m </em>cognizant.” He slammed the door and left with Tyreen.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0021"><h2>21. Something In The Way</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Arthur calls in a reliable source; includes an interlude of Arthur settling things in the warehouse.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u">
    <b>Send in the Clowns (Arthur)</b>
  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span class="u">
    <b>December 19</b>
  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>In the absence of dreams, Arthur considered his worth. He placed his value at Oasis precisely at one thousand fathoms below nothing. These were the thoughts the Joy was supposed to suppress and replace. There was a piñata filled with candy in front of him, playfully being wacked by gleeful children. Apropos of the intestines being pulled from a dead squirrel on a stick by the penniless vagrants skulking around the train-yard. Arthur knew he was supposed to feel reassured; confident in his standing at the company. <em>The Company</em>. Never in all his years had Arthur heard or even conjured up such a hysterical notion.</p>
<p>It wasn't the first time the sensation had washed over him, but the realization at just how disposable he was, and how deluded Zane was in thinking otherwise, landed a different way as the first series of <em>knocks </em>came. They were more like the <em>bangs </em>one heard before they were rounded up and placed on a train; Arthur was familiar with them. There was no circle of Hell big enough to contain Oasis, so it dug roots elsewhere. Useful as Management may have found him, there was always somebody else. The Joy was designed to disabuse him of these notions and make him believe he was special, just like a caring mother might have told him.</p>
<p>Blackberry Joy didn't brighten Arthur’s world, but it nevertheless made him feel safe. Snug under the blanket Oasis provided for him. It was only through the numbing withdrawal—a prick at his side he thought would be tolerable—that he looked up and saw the wide-eyed owl slowly moving to smother him. His story could oh so easily be rewritten, just like Riley’s, to perhaps have never taken place at all.</p>
<p>Arthur walked to his door, the hour half past seven in the morning. Tyreen was in her room getting dressed, hurriedly. He opened the door and saw a half dozen police officers—the regional kind—looking him down like a squad of poachers would a drowsy rhino.</p>
<p>“Arthur Hastings?” An officer asked.</p>
<p>“<em>No</em>.” Arthur slammed the door. For a beat he smiled, thinking himself very clever. He saw Tyreen wheel herself toward the kitchen. Just as his mouth opened—Arthur didn't know what he was going to say exactly, a variation of <em>‘Good Morning’ ‘What’d you have in mind for breakfast’</em> and <em>‘can you believe these fucking pigs’</em>—Tyreen shrieked.</p>
<p>Something to the tune of Arthur’s door being broken in, him being tackled to the floor and handcuffed played out. Arthur looked up from the floor his face was smashed into and watched as Tyreen was taken away. He’d never craved Joy more than he did on the floor, with a knee on his back and cold metal digging into his wrists.</p>
<p>Arthur was picked up and brought to face the same officer who’d unceremoniously declared his name at the door.</p>
<p>“Are there any firearms on the premises Mr. Hastings?”</p>
<p>“You are going to regret taking my child from me.”</p>
<p>“Excuse me?”</p>
<p>Arthur closed his mouth and smiled.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>The sting from the white light—both on his eyes and from the noise the bulb made from being a wattage too strong—made Arthur recoil. His wrists were bleeding and his head was starting to fill with the most barbaric thoughts, as his gaze shifted to the two policemen sitting across from him.</p>
<p>“Mr. Hastings—”</p>
<p>“I called someone…”</p>
<p>“Yes… <em>you did</em>… and they’re on their way.”</p>
<p>“Been that way for a while.”</p>
<p>Arthur shifted in his seat. He rolled his neck around but the stiffness lingered.</p>
<p>“We’d like to ask you a few more questions about your wife.”</p>
<p>“<em>Rachel</em>…”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“We’re separated.” The officers took an aside to whisper to each other. “Was it something I said?”</p>
<p>“Yes… Mr. Hastings. We have no record of you divorcing your wife.”</p>
<p>“How convenient.”</p>
<p>“Come again?”</p>
<p>“I’d rather not. I have the strangest feeling.”</p>
<p>“And what would that be, Mr. Hastings?”</p>
<p>“That I’m getting fucked.”</p>
<p>“By… who?”</p>
<p>Arthur rolled his neck again. He took in the room he was in. “Nobody you’d know…” The officers took another aside. Arthur smelled spooks.</p>
<p>“Mr. Hastings… what happened to your daughter?”</p>
<p>“You took her. Forget already?”</p>
<p>“I meant the wheelchair.”</p>
<p>“I <em>know </em>you meant the wheelchair.”</p>
<p>“Are we agitating you Mr. Hastings?”</p>
<p>“No, no, no… public transit in this goddamn city is agitating me. The stench of this room is only mildly irritating me. If you want to know what happened to Tyreen… why don’t you ask Rachel. She was the one driving. <em>I </em>wasn't even there.”</p>
<p>“Where were you?”</p>
<p>“<em>Packing</em>.”</p>
<p>“How did Rachel get custody?”</p>
<p>“Fucking beats me. Been wondering the same thing myself. I figure her lawyers did a better job than me. I represented myself. I thought…” Arthur caught a case of the giggles. “… <em>I thought</em>… that everything was pretty obvious. Didn’t think I needed to being in the corporate firing squad. Turns out I was wrong… <em>that’s life</em>.”</p>
<p>The door to the room he was in opened. An officer poked their head in. “He’s been cleared.”</p>
<p>The officers seemed hesitant about relieving Arthur of his restraints, but did so anyway. Arthur felt his wrists and the back of his neck. He placed one hand under his chin and cracked his neck. “<em>Ah</em>…”</p>
<p>Arthur left the room and made his way out of the police station. Ed was waiting for him, in uniform.</p>
<p>“Jesus, Arthur… didn't recognize you for a minute.”</p>
<p>“<em>Thanks</em>…”</p>
<p>They started walking down the street, toward the corner where a line of cabs was waiting.</p>
<p>“What, <em>uh</em>,” Ed stammered, “how’d you wind up in there, Arthur?”</p>
<p>“Marital dispute. Don’t worry, Ed,” Arthur slapped him on the back, making him jump. “I’ve got a handle on everything.”</p>
<p>“You sure?”</p>
<p>“<em>Of course</em>,” they stopped at the corner, “Ed?”</p>
<p>“Yeah, Arthur?”</p>
<p>“Where’s the closest pharmacy?”</p>
<p>“One of… <em>ours</em>?”</p>
<p>“<em>Uh-huh</em>.”</p>
<p>“You been taking your Joy?”</p>
<p>“That’s why I need a refill, <em>dummy</em>.”</p>
<p>Ed seemed relieved. “Down a few blocks. Probably better off walking, get there quicker.”</p>
<p>“You’re reliable Ed, thank you.” Arthur took off.</p>
<p>“You got it, Hastings.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Inside an Oasis branded dispensary, a wide variety of little smiling faces were sold for when the pain needed to go away, be brought back, or wait patiently while you made up your damn mind. The store was a shade of white known as: sanitarium foyer. There was nothing on the shelves of interest to Arthur. What he needed was behind the counter, otherwise the rest of his day would become overwhelmingly more unpleasant.</p>
<p>There was a short queue in front of him, so Arthur crossed his arms and began restlessly and unconsciously tapping his foot on the floor. Glass—of the impenetrable bar atomic nuking variety—stood in between the hierophant and the objects of his sermon. There was a small opening below the glass that the highly coveted, enormously expensive, smiling faces were deposited into; Joy in all its many colors and flavors.</p>
<p>Arthur knew there were Joy Doctors in the back, on the off chance something popped off and they were able to get in a bit of sport before lunch. The rows of Joy stretched back farther than Arthur could make out. There were enough pills to construct a life-sized flying saucer and an engine capable of reaching Venus.</p>
<p>“Do you have a prescription?”</p>
<p>Arthur looked down. The man behind the counter looked bored; Arthur mused he didn't look like the caliber of clientele that could be persuaded into buying a pack of wafer cookies to help all the world’s starving children.</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>The salesman’s eyes did a full three-sixty rotation. “Well, where is it?” Arthur shuffled around on his feet. “Guy, you do realize that no prescription means get the fuck out right… <em>unless</em>… did you want a bit of our <em>Simple Rick’s</em>—”</p>
<p>“I’m a Bobby.”</p>
<p>“You know… lotta people been coming in with that one recently. You sure as shit don’t look like one.”</p>
<p>“Didn't have time to put on a uniform,” said Arthur, looking over the t-shirt and long boxers he’d been dragged out of his apartment in. He was wearing socks and the only upside he could see to them was that they were the same color.</p>
<p>“Maybe that’s cause you didn't have one to begin with.”</p>
<p>“I know you’ve got Doctors back there. Bring them out here.”</p>
<p>“I just finished mopping up after the <em>last </em>guy said the same thing—”</p>
<p>Arthur pressed his hands to the glass. “Health and Wellness putting you up to this?”</p>
<p>“Buddy… do I really look like the kind of guy that get’s to go up to Health and Wellness? <em>No</em>. I’m just the guy they got workin’ the counter today. Not for long, though. I’m headed out west. Fuckin’ Vegas! Gonna actually peddle something worth a damn, far away from these fucking… <em>gorillas</em>.”</p>
<p>“What’s your name?”</p>
<p>“What’s yours?”</p>
<p>“<em>Mr. Monster</em>.”</p>
<p>“<em>Cute</em>… I’m Jesse. Please leave, <em>Señor Monstruo</em>. Got happiness to sow.”</p>
<p>Arthur stepped away from the glass. He left the pharmacy and rounded the corner. He eyed an alleyway and stepped down it, dousing his socks in a puddle of the city’s sweat. There was a Joy Doctor van further down, parked in the opposite end of the alley. Arthur banged on the back door of the pharmacy. A slip in the door was slid aside, revealing the white face and faux mustache of a Doctor.</p>
<p>“<em>Arthur</em>…”</p>
<p>“<em>Andy</em>…”</p>
<p>The door swung open. Arthur saw Leo and Bernard playing cards, the former dealing while the latter rationed smokes.</p>
<p>“What can we do for you?”</p>
<p>“The cunt at the front wouldn't let me in.”</p>
<p>Andy turned around, eyeing the counter. “Why?”</p>
<p>“You’d have to ask him.”</p>
<p>He turned back around, looking down at Arthur. “Need something?”</p>
<p>“My prescription.”</p>
<p>“Blackberry… <em>right</em>?”</p>
<p>“That’d be swell,” said Arthur, feeling his hands get clammy.</p>
<p>Andy stepped aside. “Well I have no goddamn idea where it is…” He returned to the cards.</p>
<p>Arthur entered the pharmacy and began looking down the rows. He ran through the light yellow Vanilla—the tired and true standard—the chocolate—which had more in common with a health food store brand paste—the strawberry, and the coconut—which never officially cleared the trials phase and had, at one point, been known to render daily users braindead. Arthur found the Blackberry near the front, where he could hear Jesse pawning off two boxes of wafer cookies—the proceeds of which went into the dark vacuum of space that was the <em>Corporate Development </em>section of the <em>Finance</em> division.</p>
<p>Arthur opened a sealed bag and took out a bottle filled with purple faces and their grotesquely straight, black smiles. He shook five out onto his hand and downed them straight. What Megan couldn't understand yet, because she hadn't been prescribed her happiness for nearly a fifth as long as Arthur had, was Joy led to a clearer, more stable mind. That’s what it said on the bottle anyhow, and how could a little orange bottle lie? Joy made Arthur more flexible, more precise. He had better control over how much force he used when he bashed Jesse’s face into the atom bomb proof glass. Megan could go a few hours, maybe a day without taking it. She didn't see the incessant need. Arthur didn't like the word <em>need</em>. He just knew himself better. When he wasn't on Joy, life was a lot messier.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span class="u">
    <b>The Warehouse (2 Years Prior)</b>
  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Nimue, Morgause, and Vivienne were hanging upside down by chains tied around their legs. They dangled above the floor of the warehouse, cloth gags stuffed down their mouths. There was somewhere between twenty and thirty Bobbies surrounding them. The night hadn't started, yet.</p>
<p>Arthur popped a Joy, then stepped forward. He took his truncheon and twirled it in his hand. When he reached Nimue, he bent down and took her head in his hand, running the truncheon along the right side of her face.</p>
<p>“<em>Sing Hallelujah</em>…” Arthur struck Nimue in the jaw with his truncheon, producing an audible <em>WHACK </em>and<em> CRUCNH</em> combo. The cloth turned red, blood seeping out of her mouth and dripping past her nose. The Bobbie behind him broke out in song.</p>
<p>Arthur turned to Morgause, striking her in the stomach for each raucous <em>‘It’s Stubbs’ </em>he heard with feeling.</p>
<p>The rest of theBobbies were itching, Arthur could tell. He stretched out his arms and handed his truncheon off. He passed through the crowd. The jeers got louder, as did the <em>CRACKS </em>and <em>SNAPS</em> and the rest of the gargled nosies that came from Morgause’s body slowly withering away. Arthur hummed to himself as he left the warehouse.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Zane was coming in, and found Arthur sitting on Oasis’ front steps. “What in the world are you doing out here?”</p>
<p>“<em>Minding myself</em>.”</p>
<p>“Where’s your truncheon?”</p>
<p>“I have no idea,” Arthur went into his pocket and popped another two Joy.</p>
<p>“Fuck cracked your head open tonight?”</p>
<p>“Nothing… you working the furnace?”</p>
<p>“No,” said Zane, “gotta make a run with the Doctors.”</p>
<p>“We’re working on it.”</p>
<p>“You know that didn't make a lick ‘a goddamn sense to me, right boyo?”</p>
<p>“Where Nimue sent the Joy. The coconut. We’re working on it.”</p>
<p>“<em>I see</em>… I’m just headed off to round a few souls for the Ferryman. Didn’t hear nothin’ about the Weird Warehouse Crew. That a state secret?”</p>
<p>“No. We’re working on it.”</p>
<p>“So I’ve heard… looks like you’ve got a delivery.”</p>
<p>Arthur looked behind him and saw a Bobby walking out with his truncheon, speckled with blood. “Where are we?” He asked, taking the truncheon back.</p>
<p>The Bobby eyed Zane, as if he wasn't sure the information was safe to share. Sensing the trepidation, Zane said “I’m gonna pop off. You gents have a pleasant evening.”</p>
<p>As Zane left earshot and entered the Oasis lobby, the Bobby sat down beside Arthur. “Nimue’s dead.”</p>
<p>“How?” Asked Arthur.</p>
<p>“She choked to death.”</p>
<p>“On?”</p>
<p>“The cloth. <em>Purposefully</em>.”</p>
<p>Arthur sighed. “That it?”</p>
<p>“Morgause has bleeding of the internal persuasion.”</p>
<p>“Of course she does.”</p>
<p>“She won’t last much longer.”</p>
<p>“Give me an exact amount of time,” said Arthur.</p>
<p>“An hour.”</p>
<p>“Vivienne?”</p>
<p>“Alive.”</p>
<p>“<em>But</em>?”</p>
<p>“Untouched.”</p>
<p>“You’re sure about that?”</p>
<p>“<em>Absolutely</em>.”</p>
<p>Arthur stood and the Bobby followed. They entered the Oasis lobby and Arthur called the elevator.</p>
<p>“The Joy’s on a train headed for Boston,” said the Bobby.</p>
<p>The elevator arrived. Arthur held the Bobby from getting on with him. “That is entirely irrelevant.”</p>
<p>Arthur rode the elevator up to the twenty sixth floor. He got off on <em>Health and Wellness</em> and was greeted with the sound of gentle waves crashing against the shore and violet overhead lights designed to relax and subdue the senses. He walked up to the front desk and before he could ring the bell, the hand of a Joy Doctor reached out from beyond and grabbed his.</p>
<p>“We’re closed.”</p>
<p>“I’d like to make three appointments,” said Arthur.</p>
<p>The Doctor released him. He leaned forward and opened a wide scheduling book. He flipped to the latest page. “For who?”</p>
<p>“Nimue’s had an accident.”</p>
<p>“<em>I see</em>,” the Doctor scribbled, “what kind?”</p>
<p>“I was hoping to leave that to you.”</p>
<p>The Doctor looked up at Arthur. “That costs extra.”</p>
<p>“This is company business.”</p>
<p>“No it’s not. You wouldn't be <em>here</em> if it was.”</p>
<p>Arthur leaned over the desk. “You can ask Jeffrey Castion—”</p>
<p>“That won’t work here,” the Doctor rose to meet Arthur’s gaze, “would you like to try again?”</p>
<p>“I’d <em>like</em> to make my next appointment.”</p>
<p>“Time sensitive situation?”</p>
<p>“It’s for Seaside.”</p>
<p>“<em>Perfect</em>. You’re racking up quite the debit, Mr. Hastings. Such lofty treats, whatever did the sisters do to deserve them?”</p>
<p>“<em>You know</em>.”</p>
<p>“The wild card being what Bobbies have to do with a few missing pills?”</p>
<p>“The last appointment is for Vivienne.”</p>
<p>“And what does she need?”</p>
<p>“A <em>very </em>stern talking to.”</p>
<p>“You couldn't give her one yourself?”</p>
<p>The elevator went off behind Arthur, yet he remained deadlocked with the Doctor.</p>
<p>“Michael?” Ridgewell advanced on the front desk. The Doctor averted his glare.</p>
<p>“I was just finishing Mr. Hastings bill.”</p>
<p>“No, you weren’t,” said Ridgewell.</p>
<p>“I… <em>wasn’t</em>?”</p>
<p>“Management needs everything in tip top shape. Isn’t that right, Mr. Hastings.”</p>
<p>“<em>Yes</em>,” said Arthur, “<em>tip top</em>.”</p>
<p>The Doctor retreated. “We’ll get right on it, then.”</p>
<p>Ridgewell wrapped an arm around Arthur. “I’d like to discuss something with you, Hastings… unless you’re needed downstairs?”</p>
<p>“No.”</p>
<p>“You sure?”</p>
<p>“I’m as well as can be.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0022"><h2>22. First One's Free</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>We start with a look at Arthur's time in Wellington; then, Arthur settles things with Rachel.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u">
    <b>Send in the Clowns (Arthur)</b>
  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span class="u">
    <b>Six Years Prior</b>
    <b> (The Day of Tyreen’s Accident)</b>
  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Arthur sat in his office at City Hall. The blinds were closed and he was in near complete darkness. There was a commotion outside, down below on the streets, and Arthur turned up the volume on his radio to drown out the unpleasantness.</p>
<p>“<em>I see trees of green, red roses too</em>…”</p>
<p>Arthur began to hum along, singing quietly to himself. “I see them bloom, for me and you. And I think to myself,” Arthur took a bottle filled with Joy out from his desk and popped it open, “<em>what a wonderful world</em>.” He took two Joy, swallowing them quickly and licking his lips after. He slipped several pills into his front pocket, then returned the bottle to his desk.</p>
<p>Arthur got up and went to the window in the front of his office. He peeked through the shuttered blinds and saw six neat rows containing twelve Oasis employees each, face masks on and polished—sparkling, with rosy cheeks just the way he liked them. They sat at their desks, manning their redactors; keeping the tubes running spick and span. Arthur rested a hand on his truncheon. Everything was in it’s right place.</p>
<p>“<em>I see skies of blue, and clouds of white. The bright blessed day</em>…”</p>
<p>One of the employees went to stretch and looked back towards Arthur, their eyes meeting.</p>
<p>“<em>… the dark sacred night. And I think to myself…</em>”</p>
<p>The employee, startled, returned to work immediately, picking up a frantic pace.</p>
<p>“What a wonderful world,” Arthur left the blinds and returned to his desk. He took his face mask off momentarily and wiped it with the edge of his sleeve. As he went to put it back on, there was a quick succession of knocks at his door.</p>
<p>“<em>The colors of the rainbow, so pretty in the sky</em>.”</p>
<p>Arthur picked up, “Are also on the faces, of people going by.”</p>
<p>Victoria Byng entered his office and was thrown off by the darkness. “Arthur? Why are you in the dark? I can barely see you.”</p>
<p>Arthur was silent. He leaned back in his seat, arms crossed, listening to the radio.</p>
<p>“<em>I see friends shaking hands, saying ‘how do you do?’ They’re really saying, ‘I love you’.</em>”</p>
<p>Victoria opened the front blinds to Arthur’s office; those in his bullpen stole glances inside.</p>
<p>“<em>I hear babies cry, I watch them grow. They’ll learn much more, than I’ll ever know. And I think to myself</em>…”</p>
<p>Victoria reached for the radio dial and Arthur grabbed her hand in a flash, twisting it back. “What can I do for you, Miss Byng?”</p>
<p>“Arthur—”</p>
<p>“I’m aware of my name.”</p>
<p>“Please let go of my hand.” Arthur complied. “You haven't left your office all day, I assume?”</p>
<p>“I’ve been here since ten last night.”</p>
<p>“You have?”</p>
<p>“Yes. Management was concerned… about the <em>rats</em> at our door.”</p>
<p>“<em>Brilliant</em>…” Victoria massaged her hand.</p>
<p>Arthur stood, craning his neck. “Have you forgotten your Joy, today, Miss Byng?”</p>
<p>“Of course not!” Arthur backed Victoria up to the door. She reached her hand out, but Arthur grabbed the door handle before she could. Arthur towered over Victoria, pressing into her. “<em>Snug as a bug on a drug</em>,” she whimpered.</p>
<p>“I would hope so,” said Arthur.</p>
<p>“I should be getting back—”</p>
<p>“To where?”</p>
<p>“I—”</p>
<p>“You <em>don’t know</em>, do you Miss Byng?”</p>
<p>Victoria swallowed. “Arthur…”</p>
<p>“Why did you come into my office, <em>Victoria</em>? Why did you open my blinds and try to turn my radio off? Is something wrong? Do you need <em>something</em> from me? <em>Anything</em> at all? We have Doctors on call who could…”</p>
<p>The window overlooking the Parade District shattered, glass flew out over Arthur’s office. He turned to see a brick lying in the middle of his desk. His hand didn’t leave the door knob. “Wouldn’t you think that’s odd?”</p>
<p>Victoria blurted out, “Arthur, I think they need you downstairs!”</p>
<p>Arthur left Victoria against the door and went to look outside his window. The final barricade in front of the doors to City Hall had been broken through. Downers were flooding the building. He saw one of them raising a Molotov cocktail. Arthur went and grabbed the brick from his desk, taking aim at the fiery bottle and throwing it. The brick connected with the Downer’s wrist, breaking his grip, making him drop the bottle and ignite his feet.</p>
<p>Arthur turned back to Victoria, who was still standing up against the door. “What lovely news, Victoria.” He pushed her aside and opened the door to his office, just as the phone started ringing.</p>
<p>“Arthur, should I…”</p>
<p>He had already started walking through the bullpen. Arthur sat one of his employee’s back down. “Keep working, everyone… <em>clear skies</em>.”</p>
<p>Victoria went and picked up his phone. “Hello, Hastings office…”</p>
<p>Arthur made it to the opposite side of his room. Behind a set of double doors, which led to the second floor, a panicked Hopkins was being seated by a Doctor.</p>
<p>“Arthur!,” Victoria called after him; he turned. “It’s your wife.”</p>
<p>Arthur ignored her and pushed through the doors. To his left were a group of Doctors, their saws spinning; to his right were a group of fast-walking Bobbies, clacking their truncheons along the floor. “<em>Righto</em>,” said Arthur, falling in line with the rest of the Bobbies as they rushed down the spiral stairs to the first floor. The Downers had flooded the lobby.</p>
<p>“There they are! Let’s cheer ‘em up, lads!” Shouted one of the Bobbies.</p>
<p>Arthur lunged forward, truncheon at the ready. He caught a man with a knife and broke his arm, then bashed his teeth in with the truncheon. “We’ll have none of that ‘round here!”</p>
<p>Two more Downers came at him carrying makeshift clubs—bits of wood and sheet metal. Arthur kicked one in the leg, setting him off balance. The other was a woman, shorter than him. She swung and cracked him in the ribs. “<em>THAT’S THE SPIRIT!</em>”</p>
<p>Arthur grabbed the bit of wood she was carrying on her second swing. He belted her in the neck with the butt of his truncheon. As she staggered back, struggling to breath, Arthur turned his attention back to the man.</p>
<p>He swung the sheet metal at Arthur with too much force and it went flying out of his hands. For a beat the man looked scared as Arthur descended on him, truncheon raised. Arthur bullied him to the ground and battered his face in. Blood spurted up and coated Arthur’s mask. He looked behind him and saw the woman on her knees, face turning purple. Arthur got up, walked over to her, and snapped her neck.</p>
<p>He took a moment to watch the rest of the carnage as it unfolded around him. The Doctors had cut in down the hall, while a fresh batch of Bobbies leaped down off the stairs, barreling their way into the fray. There was a chorus of: “<em>Right! No more Mr. Nice Guy. You’re gonna get what’s coming to you. FUCKING HELL! TAKE YOUR MEDICINE YOU DOGS! TAKE IT GODDAMNIT!”</em></p>
<p>Arthur jumped back in, taking his truncheon and jamming it down a man’s throat. He disarmed a second man of his broken bottle and used it to slice the neck of a third. Arthur broke the bottle over the head of the second man, then took his thumbs and pressed them into his eyes. Arthur lifted the man up, off the ground, as the blood cascaded down his arms, over his gloves. When he stopped kicking, Arthur tossed the Downer aside. He went back to the first man and pulled the truncheon out of his mouth, whacked him over the head with it, then stomped his head in on the floor.</p>
<p>Arthur moved through the clashing mobs. He cracked the skulls of anybody not in uniform; not on their Joy. A Downer was pushed into him. Arthur threw him on the ground; he fell near the steps. Arthur brought his boot down, splitting the Downer’s head back like a trash lid.</p>
<p>He saw a Doctor towards the entrance being overwhelmed by Downers; two were on his back like monkeys. Arthur shoved through and grabbed one of the Downer’s off, pounding him in the jaw with his truncheon. Arthur took hold of the other and pushed her head onto the Doctor’s saw, slicing it evenly in half.</p>
<p>The Downers were beginning to flee City Hall. As his fellow Bobbies raced to flush them out, Arthur paused and wiped the blood from his face mask. He looked down at the bodies piled up around him. “<em>What</em>…” Arthur took a pill from his pocket and popped it. “… what a lovely day.”</p>
<p>Arthur turned around and saw Victoria on the stairs, face mask off; a look of sheer, uncontrollable horror consuming her. He walked back over to her, stepping over the countless mangled and mutilated Downers littering the floors. Arthur saw a hand twitch and immediately brought his truncheon down.</p>
<p>Arthur stepped up to Victoria and handed her his Joy. “Take it, Victoria… before someone <em>else</em> notices…” She hesitated. “<em>Victoria</em>…” He moved his hand closer to her. “This won't make <em>them </em>go away, but it <em>will </em>tide you over until you can get your hands on something that will.”</p>
<p>Victoria began backing up, shaking her head. “<em>No</em>, Arthur…”</p>
<p>He followed her up the stairs. “VICTORIA. <em>DARLING</em>. IT’S ABOUT THAT TIME. TAKE YOUR JOY!”</p>
<p>Victoria broke off in an attempt to run up the stairs. Arthur grabbed her by the legs and dragged her down. He pulled her closer.</p>
<p>“<em>Goddamnit</em>…” Arthur pushed her legs to the side. He pried open her mouth and forced the Joy inside. “Now,” Arthur forced her mouth shut, “SWALLOW IT!”</p>
<p>Victoria was breathing heavily through her nose, tears streaming down her face. She did not swallow.</p>
<p>Arthur leaned down close to her. “This is for your own good, Victoria. <em>Swallow</em>.”</p>
<p>The Joy slid down Victoria’s throat. Arthur removed his hands. He backed away from her, moving down the stairs.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span class="u">
    <b>December 19 (Present)</b>
  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Arthur kicked the door down into his old flat. He’d changed into his uniform and brought his truncheon. There was on immediate reaction to his presence. Arthur skulked around, finding the master bedroom empty he moved into the kitchen. The refrigerator was mostly bare, save a half-empty bottle of champagne and a cheese platter covered in saran wrap. Arthur found the sink empty and started opening the pantry drawers. The shelves were bare, not a single morsel of food to be seen. Arthur found an unopened box coating a large, stainless steel steak knife. It’d been there from when he still lived there.</p>
<p>Arthur opened the box—tearing at the cardboard—and brandished the knife.</p>
<p>“What the <em>hell </em>do you think you’re doing?”</p>
<p>Rachel came up behind Arthur and he turned sharply, stabbing her in the chest with the knife. He took both his hands and drove the blade through her breastplate. She fell to the floor, blood pouring down from her mouth.</p>
<p>Arthur stepped over her. He walked down the hall opposite the master bedroom. He passed the closed bathroom door. On the far left was a door ajar. Arthur slowly pushed it open. Tyreen was lying on a bed several sizes too small for her, barely conscious. On the night stand beside her was an empty bottle of Rainbow Joy.</p>
<p>The door to the bathroom opened.</p>
<p>Arthur twisted his head to watch as the man whose life up until then he’d discarded as entirely meritless stepped out in a pair of pink briefs, floss stuck between his teeth. The man looked to his left and saw Rachel drag herself across the white carpet, streaking blood.</p>
<p>Arthur started with a short giggle, graduated to a hearty chuckle, and finished with a manic, knee-slapping, hyena-pitched roar of laughter. “<em>Lovely day</em>,” he wheezed, barely able to get the words out, “<em>isn’t it</em>?”</p>
<p>Arthur sprinted at the man, throwing him against the wall and grabbing his head. Arthur battered away, chipping through the paper and the foundation behind it. When he was done coating the wall, Arthur threw the already far beyond lifeless body to the floor and grabbed the bathroom door, slamming it over and over until it finally closed shut.</p>
<p>Rachel had made it halfway to the door, which was wide open. Arthur pressed his boot on her back and popped another Joy. He bent over and ripped the knife from her chest.</p>
<p>Arthur grabbed Rachel by her hair. “Don't you think it’s time, <em>dear</em>,” Arthur slid the knife up, through her throat, “that we finalized that divorce?” He dug the knife in as deep as he could force it.</p>
<p>Arthur dropped Rachel to the floor. He went back into Tyreen’s room and picked her up off the bed. Her eyes were shut. Arthur carried her in his arms out of the apartment.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0023"><h2>23. The Most Wonderful Time</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Arthur returns to work, taking a meeting with a secret admirer.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u">
    <b>Send in the Clowns (Arthur)</b>
  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span class="u">
    <b>December 19</b>
  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Arthur returned to work just after lunch, one o’ clock sharp. He took the elevator up to <em>Health and Wellness</em>. The sound of a gentle breeze rustling through fresh, spring flowers greeted Arthur when he arrived; the smell of an untouched, infinite garden so palpable to Arthur’s nose he had to do a double-take of the room to make sure he hadn't gotten off on the wrong floor. The lights were a soothing, sky blue. Rushing water emanated from the miniature waterfall sitting on the front desk.</p>
<p>Arthur approached, but didn't ring the bell. He simply cleared his throat and Markette materialized before him.</p>
<p>“<em>Hastings</em>… you didn't clock in yesterday.”</p>
<p>“Had to take a… <em>mental health </em>day.”</p>
<p>“A <em>what</em>?”</p>
<p>Arthur took the bottle of Joy from his back pocket and shook it. “I’m all refilled, where’s Harold?”</p>
<p>Markette held his open palm out. “Can I see that bottle, Hastings?” Arthur deposited it. Markette looked over the bottle closely. “This doesn't say your name, Hastings… this doesn't say <em>anyone’s </em>name.”</p>
<p>“The pharmacist was in a bit of rush this morning… so was I.”</p>
<p>“<em>I see</em>…”</p>
<p>“But it’s Blackberry.”</p>
<p>“What's your dosage?”</p>
<p>“I’ve been on Joy a good, long while.”</p>
<p>“That’s… <em>not </em>an answer.”</p>
<p>“I don't have one, for you.”</p>
<p>Markette glared at Arthur for a beat, then handed the bottle back to him. “How are things, Arthur?”</p>
<p>“Never better.”</p>
<p>“That’s good to hear. How’s the family?”</p>
<p>“<em>Never better</em>. Ex-wife got pushed out a window this morning.”</p>
<p>Markette’s inner motor functions seemed to momentarily shut off, before rebooting. “By who?”</p>
<p>“Her boyfriend.”</p>
<p>“And… what’s he up to?”</p>
<p>“Shot himself shortly after… Markette?”</p>
<p>“Yes?”</p>
<p>“You might want to write that down.”</p>
<p>Markette gained a new level of understanding. “<em>Sure thing</em>. And, I’m afraid Mr. Ridgewell is out at the moment…”</p>
<p>Arthur poked his head over the front desk. “I’m sure he isn’t.” He looked down at the waterfall. “I quite like this.” Arthur knocked the waterfall off the desk. It cracked in half on the floor; water pooling out everywhere. He got back on the elevator, whistling <em>London Bridge Is Falling Down</em>.</p>
<p>Jeffery Castion—the man who would be President of <em>Mergers and Acquisitions</em> if they took the name tag off the door of Francesco Vega, as well as the Italian himself off life support—had his office on the twenty fifth floor. It was wide, taking up almost the entire west side of the floor. Mergers was always busy, working round the entire clock; they didn't take notice of Arthur has he forced his way into Jeffery’s office.</p>
<p>It was empty. The furniture was black and maintained that <em>‘showroom fresh’</em> crispness. Jeffery’s desk was the size of a dinner table fit for twenty. There was a calendar, still covered in plastic wrap; a stress ball designed to look like Benjamin Franklin; the drawers were filled with stacks of chewing gum: <em>Trident</em>, Passionberry Twist. Were Arthur the type to make assumptions, he would guess Mr. Vega wasn’t inclined to be making any sort of recovery, and to the surprise of his family, likely also no longer possessed the adequate health insurance to keep the tubes in him operational.</p>
<p>Arthur hoisted himself up and sat square in the middle of Jeffery’s desk. The office reminded him of his own, back in Wellington Welles City Hall. He started to think things had been so much simpler back then. Arthur immediately took another Joy. He left the twenty fifth floor just as silently as he’d entered it; he tossed Jeffery’s door handle in a waste paper basket.</p>
<p>As if he’d never left them, Jeffery and his entourage were on the twentieth floor, howling like the recently lobotomized at a full moon. Byron was lighting up a cigarette, out of a fresh <em>Blue Ribbon </em>pack. Chris and Dean were spinning themselves sick. Jason seemed to be on Doctor lookout, but when he saw Arthur, dropped his responsibilities to give a hearty handshake.</p>
<p>“There he is! Where the hell’ve you been Hastings?”</p>
<p>Jeffery turned, a bundle of fireworks popping off in his eyes. “Arthur, <em>my boy</em>…” Jeffery pulled him in for a hug. He spoke with a hushed tone into Arthur’s ear. “You ever think about how great it would be to lose your fucking mind? Probably get a four day weekend out of it and a trip to the spa. I’ve been considering it lately. I <em>need</em> a spa weekend.”</p>
<p>Arthur nodded. “All the fucking time, Jeffery… sounds like a <em>gas</em>.”</p>
<p>Jeffery’s entire body nearly exploded with laughter. “THAT’S WHY I LOVE YOU, HASTINGS!”</p>
<p>Arthur settled into the group. “So, when are we going out to celebrate?”</p>
<p>“Celebrate what?” Asked Byron.</p>
<p>Arthur looked at Jeffery as he recovered and straightened himself out. “Gonna be moving offices soon, <em>right</em>?”</p>
<p>“<em>Maybe</em>,” said Jeffery, “we’ll see. Can’t count chickens, as they say.”</p>
<p>“Of course you can,” said Chris.</p>
<p>“<em>No</em>,” Jeffery didn't even look at him, “<em>you can’t. </em>You know, Arthur, it’s good you’re here. Word got to me that you’ve got a secret admirer.”</p>
<p>“Who?”</p>
<p>“Guess.”</p>
<p>“I don't like guessing, Jeffery.”</p>
<p>“I know, but just humor me. Give ya three.”</p>
<p>“Hoffa.”</p>
<p>“No… he’s in Guam. Doesn’t even know you exist. Next.”</p>
<p>“Monroe.”</p>
<p>“Which one?”</p>
<p>“Marilyn.”</p>
<p>“Naw… <em>no</em>, that would be bad for your health. Last one.”</p>
<p>Arthur chuckled. “Well then it can only be… <em>Anton</em>.”</p>
<p>Jeffery seemed a bit taken aback. “<em>Yeah</em>… shit, Arthur, maybe I should have you pick my lotto numbers.”</p>
<p>“What’s he want?”</p>
<p>“Who?”</p>
<p>“<em>Verloc</em>.”</p>
<p>“<em>Oh</em>… maybe he wants a party clown? I don’t know. Just heard he’s been looking for ya. You gonna see him?”</p>
<p>“<em>Right away</em>,” said Arthur, moving away from Jeffery’s crew. He made his way back to the elevator, perfectly aware of Jeffery’s eyes trailing him as he did. Arthur waited for the doors to open, and when they did, stepped aside as a trio of Joy Doctors stepped off. For the time, both parties ignored each other.</p>
<p>Anton Verloc held an office on the fifth floor, where he ran over <em>Product Development</em> and <em>Exploratory Research</em>. The man had grown exceedingly more paranoid ever since being transferred to the New York branch, and as Arthur had come to learn, rightfully so. Anton paid out of his own pockets, which were constantly dwindling in size, for private Bobby protection. His bodyguards wore bright, white uniforms and purple headlights. They never left his side. Anton had even made room for them in his penthouse apartment in the city. Arthur wondered why he bothered, since anyone worth two cents could tell him that once the Bobbies stopped getting their annual stipend, he was open and bare for all the wolves at his door. The money didn't necessarily need to dry up first, either. Ridgewell, or other biting parties, could always just offer more.</p>
<p>Arthur exited the elevator and made his way towards Anton’s office. He was approached by two of his white Bobbies. They looked exceptionally nervous.</p>
<p>“Never fear, gents… today’s<em> not </em>that day.” Arthur handed over his truncheon, so as to better reassure them.</p>
<p>The Bobbies stepped aside.</p>
<p>Arthur entered Verloc’s office. He was greeted by a series of static television screens mounted on the wall to his left, and a stacked, wooden bar to his right. The drapes were open and Anton was standing before them, looking out over the city with a glass of brandy in his hand.</p>
<p>“Hello, Arthur. Take something to drink, if you want.”</p>
<p>“Jeffery said you… wanted to speak with me.”</p>
<p>Anton turned and the drapes closed of their own free will. He moved around a wide, circular table adorned with various buttons and switches and took a seat in a plush, round chair. “<em>Jeffery Castion</em>… how do your reckon that man ever got hired?”</p>
<p>Arthur remained standing. He looked over the room, connecting the buttons, eyeing the police box in the northwest corner. Then he looked down at Anton himself, and the way his bleached, Eiffel Tower shaped hair piece was drooping. “He performed well.”</p>
<p>Anton snorted. “Come on, now, Arthur… be honest with me… <em>please</em>.”</p>
<p>Arthur rested his hands behind his back. He had, after all, assuaged the concerns of the Bobbies at the door in good faith. He pushed aside the growing itch in the back of his skull, signaling that it was high past time he popped another Joy. “Jeffery has what, if he were a woman, Management would refer to as a <em>‘pretty mouth’</em>. He talks the way Freddie Mercury sang: flawlessly. And he’s got connections. He knows the people that talk to you in the middle of the night through your television when you’re watching a midnight science fiction feature. Jeffery would make a great salesman if he didn't have a fickle temper, a flair for overdramatizing the most banal fucking details of a conversation, and the desire to sell things we are not in the business of producing. He tried bundling cable packages once, I was there, and it was a <em>gas</em>. But Management figured he was much better suited to <em>acquiring </em>things, then he was at giving them out. And here we are. He doesn't much care for you, Anton, but I’m sure you were already well aware of that. You have an electric panel on the floor, here,” Arthur hovered his foot, “which is why you’ll have to forgive me if I don’t sit. You have a secret passageway behind the bar that lets out into the parking garage—<em>very</em> useful. However, all of that wouldn't be necessary if you’d simply made one crucial investment.”</p>
<p>“And what would<em> that</em> be, Arthur?”</p>
<p>“A <em>gun</em>. Very nifty little contraptions. Everyone here’s got them. You can buy them at connivence stores now. Or, maybe if you ask them nicely, the people that speak to you through the TV will <em>reach out and give you one</em>.”</p>
<p>Anton lowered his drink. “Are you mocking me, Hastings?”</p>
<p>“No. I’ve seen them too. Japanese woman, wants you to buy flan. It’s all very macabre, wouldn't you agree?”</p>
<p>“<em>Yes</em>,” Anton concurred. He looked at Arthur differently, as if up until then he’d been underestimating his deductive prowess. “Arthur, do you know why I’m here?”</p>
<p>“You lobotomized an entire city.”</p>
<p>“<em>Lobotomized</em>… is such a dirty, overused word. It’s lost all its meaning.”</p>
<p>“No it hasn’t,” snapped Arthur, “that’s what you did. <em>I </em>was there.”</p>
<p>“You… <em>were</em>?”</p>
<p>“That’s not why I’m here Anton. You couldn't afford the price of reminiscing with me,” Arthur cracked his neck. “We don't have much time left, Anton.”</p>
<p>“We don’t?”</p>
<p>“<em>No</em>.”</p>
<p>“Why not?”</p>
<p>Arthur took the Joy bottle from his back pocket and held it before Anton; an hourglass on the verge of exploring from within. “<em>Tick tock</em>.”</p>
<p>“I have appreciated your candor, Arthur.”</p>
<p>“But you know just as well as I do that your time occupying this mortal plane of ours is almost… <em>at its end</em>.”</p>
<p>“It doesn't have to be.”</p>
<p>“Yes it does, Anton. <em>Yes it does</em>.”</p>
<p>Anton hung his head, accepting this. “The Christmas party, Arthur, I think you should come. <em>Everyone </em>will be there… good a time as any, I’d say.”</p>
<p>Arthur opened the Joy bottle and laid two pills out on his hand. He considered it, then rolled out a third. “Was that it?”</p>
<p>“There <em>is </em>a way for you to survive this, too, Arthur.”</p>
<p>Arthur took the Joy. “No there isn’t.”</p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0024"><h2>24. You Get What You Fucking Deserve</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Arthur attends Anton's Christmas party.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u">
    <b>Send in the Clowns (Arthur)</b>
  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span class="u">
    <b>December 24</b>
  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Arthur fastened the last button on his uniform. He took hold of his face mask and glided it on. His gloves were tight, shoes recently polished, and the glass of scotch next to his bed was empty.</p>
<p>“You’re going to the party dressed like <em>that</em>?” Asked Tyreen, wheeling herself into his room.</p>
<p>“It’s a working party, dear.”</p>
<p>Tyreen shrugged. She looked up at her father and held her hands out. “Your collar’s coming undone.” It wasn’t, but Arthur knelt down regardless. Tyreen’s little hands worked their way around his neck, straightening him out. “Have you heard anything from mom?”</p>
<p>“It’s best to let the lawyers handle these things, you know. The more we get involved… the messier everything gets. We shell out the big bucks for a reason.”</p>
<p>“<em>Okay</em>,” Tyreen was satisfied with her patch up job, less so with the answer.</p>
<p>Arthur placed his hands on Tyreen’s shoulders. “Listen… just because she hasn't called, doesn't mean—”</p>
<p>Tyreen pulled away, wheeling herself into the hall. “Save it, dad.”</p>
<p>Arthur followed. “I don't know what time I’m going to be back tonight, but I’ve left money on the counter…” Tyreen went into her room. Arthur stood in the doorway. “… order whatever you want.”</p>
<p>Tyreen pulled herself onto the bed. “Thanks, dad.”</p>
<p>Arthur entered her room. He wrapped his arms around Tyreen and hugged her tight. “I love you.”</p>
<p>“I love you too.”</p>
<p>“I’m proud of you…” Arthur pulled back and looked over Tyreen “… and I always will be.”</p>
<p>“Dad… are you okay?”</p>
<p>“<em>Right as rain</em>,” Arthur ruffled her hair, “don’t stay up too late.”</p>
<p>Arthur left his apartment. When he got down to street level, Arthur saw two men in striped, green shirts and slacks waiting for him.</p>
<p>“You Arthur Hastings?” One of them asked, sporting an Irish accent.</p>
<p>“<em>Indeed</em>.”</p>
<p>“You happen ‘ta know some degenerate cunt by the name of <em>Zane</em>? Work with him maybe?” Asked the second Irishman.</p>
<p>“It’s entirely possible… but you’d probably be better off asking down at our offices. Need help with directions?”</p>
<p>“<em>Ah</em>,” the first man spit, “told you this was a waste of time.”</p>
<p>“Do you have any idea how hard it is to get near your <em>offices</em>, Mr. Hastings?” Continued the second man.</p>
<p>“I suppose not. However, gents… I really must be off. If I see Zane, who shall I say was asking after him?”</p>
<p>The Irishmen shrugged. “<em>Dunno</em>,” chirped the first. “Reckon we’ll see him before he sees us, Mr. Hastings. Thank you for your time,” said the second.</p>
<p>Arthur left behind the Irishmen. They got into a beat-up, old sedan parked just down the street. As Arthur turned to walk down the block in the opposite direction, he heard an explosion pop off behind him. He turned and saw the sedan in flames. As bystanders stopped to take pictures, Arthur kept on walking.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“<em>Ah, look at all the lonely people. Ah, look at all the lonely people</em>.”</p>
<p>Arthur entered Anton Verloc’s downtown, penthouse apartment at six o’clock sharp. The party didn't officially start for another hour, hour and a half at least. Arthur had wanted to be fashionably early, and from the looks of things so did the Oasis rank and file, as they drank his eggnog, sprawled out over his couches, and took in his peculiar fascination with deep sea anglerfish—the likes of which were painted and photographed, populating picture frames all over the apartment.</p>
<p>Anton’s white Bobbies were nowhere in sight. For that matter, neither was the man himself. There were assorted trays overflowing with finger food, ornate ash trays, the host had even splurged on real yellow roses. Arthur was impressed. Anton’s guests— the men in their festive, yet, tasteful holiday sweaters and the women in their glittery, red, white, and green dresses; the tree shaped earrings; the reindeer pattered wrapping on the gifts they brought, and had purchased several hours earlier; the face masks all so <em>holly jolly</em>—hadn't the faintest idea how improper their attire was. They were, after all, attending a funeral.</p>
<p>“<em>All the lonely people. Where do they all come from? All the lonely people. Where do they all belong</em>?”</p>
<p>“Hell, Arthur,” Cassie pulled him aside, “if you’d’ve asked I’m sure Ed would've let you borrow one of his sweaters.”</p>
<p>Arthur looked around, and it didn't take long before he spotted Ed in a bright, yellow and brown sweater with a <em>‘Naughty/Nice’</em> list running down the middle. “This is a working party, Cass.” He turned to see her take a sip from a long, martini glass.</p>
<p>Sensing his gaze, Casie said, “It’s just club soda, Arthur.”</p>
<p>Arthur took out his bottle of Joy and popped one. “Enjoy the night, Cass. Sure there won’t be one like it again for a while.”</p>
<p>Arthur tried to move on, but Cassie grabbed his arm. “You don't <em>have </em>to be here, Arthur. Not if you don't want to, at least.”</p>
<p>Arthur gently removed her hand. “<em>Oh</em>, but I do so enjoy making people laugh.”</p>
<p>“<em>Father McKenzie, writing the words of a sermon that no one will hear. No one comes near. Look at him working, darning his socks in the night when there’s nobody there. What does he care?</em>”</p>
<p>Arthur ascended a spiral staircase to the second floor. Outside the penthouse windows, as the sun began to set, snow fell. All of the guests were downstairs. Arthur was on his own as he trailed down the the halls of Anton’s apartment, leering at his music room and the dust piling up on the grand piano. The bedrooms, those Arthur traced back to the Bobbies, were empty and in pristine order—recently cleared out and prepped to look like they’d never been in use to begin with. Arthur found Anton in the master bedroom, standing in front of a mirror, attending to his cufflinks. Music poured from the radio beside his bed.</p>
<p>“<em>Eleanor Rigby died in a church and was buried along with her name. Nobody came. Father McKenzie wiping the dirt from his hands as he walks from the grave. No one was saved.</em>”</p>
<p>Anton straightened out his all black suit and took in the sight of his ghostly reflection: he was pale, with baggy eyes; he possessed the fragility of a man that hadn't eaten a proper meal in weeks. What remained—if it had ever existed at all—of Anton’s soul had long since departed his body. He was a husk; a shell filled with ashes; a fort made entirely out of faded playing cards.</p>
<p>“They have a name for you, <em>here</em>, don’t they Arthur?” Anton didn't turn when he addressed him; his eyes maintained lock on the mirror.</p>
<p>“Mr. Monster.”</p>
<p>“And do you do last requests, <em>Mr. Monster</em>?”</p>
<p>“Depends what they are…” Anton griped both sides of the mirror. “… I’m afraid you can’t fit through there.”</p>
<p>“I KNOW,” there was a growl in Anton’s voice. He looked to be filled with just enough rage to strike the mirror, shattering it, yet, still to irrationally fixated on his luck. Anton turned to face Arthur, who had remained in the doorway. “There are no tricks in here, Arthur.”</p>
<p>“Can never be too careful.”</p>
<p>“I <em>remember </em>Wellington Welles, Arthur, “ Anton started crossing the room, “I don’t see this city winding up any better. There is something we were working on… <em>back then</em>. Memories… are like a church, made out of cheese… and the pews are filled with mice.” Anton reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, black pill. “Or so I was told. Consider this your severance, Arthur.” He held out the pill.</p>
<p>Arthur took it, holding it in his fingers. “This isn't Joy.”</p>
<p>“<em>It is</em>… of a much different sort. What you're holding right now Arthur… I cannot quantify to you right now its value. Just know that this is the only of its kind in existence. Save it for a rainy day, Arthur. Or… for when nothing else can quite keep the voices at bay… and you want to go back to a simpler time… and forget… <em>everything</em>.”</p>
<p>Anton slipped by Arthur and left the bedroom, making his way down the hall towards the roar of the party.</p>
<p>“And your last request?” Arthur called to him.</p>
<p>“It’s coming to you now,” said Anton, without looking back.</p>
<p>Arthur stood in the hall, waiting, examining the little black pill in the palm of his hand. When nothing and no one came to him, Arthur pocketed the pill and began walking in the opposite direction of the party. He came to a fork and made a left. The third door on his left hand side was ajar, and Arthur entered it.</p>
<p>Inside was the bathroom, an all black room—from the tiles to the ceiling. It stretched on for quite a bit, with a dividing wall in the middle lined with urinals on either side. On the left were stalls and on the right were sinks and mirrors with neon, purple lights on overhead.</p>
<p>Arthur stretched out his hands in front of him, laced his hands together, and cracked his knuckles. He walked up to a urinal in the middle, third from the left and forth from the right. He unzipped his trouser fly.</p>
<p>The first sound in the bathroom emanated from the splash on the urinal cake. The second was from the flush of a toilet on the opposite side. The third was a man’s whistling of a tune fit for the funeral of a queen.</p>
<p>“<em>There was me</em>,” Jeffery rounded the corner, holding onto the edge like it was a street lamp, “and then there was you, <em>Arthur</em>.” Jeffery sauntered up to the sink, his face mask off, revealing a bushy, twirled up mustache. “I’ve given the boys the night off…” He applied a puff of soap, then began washing his hands “… They didn’t want to come anyway.”</p>
<p>Arthur zipped up his fly, then flushed.</p>
<p>“Anton’s got one helluva place,” continued Jeffery, “don’t you think the carpet’s chic?”</p>
<p>Arthur moved to the sink two down from Jeffery. He took the blue soap bottle and gave himself a puff, then cranked the hot water on.</p>
<p>“We were never really friends, were we Arthur?” Jeffery turned his water off, flicking the water from his hands.</p>
<p>“We were what was convenient,” said Arthur, glaring into the mirror, finding it off how the light made his face glow.</p>
<p>Jeffery took to his side, face mask on. “I’d be lying I said that hurts… but it kinda does.”</p>
<p>Arthur turned his water off. He looked down.</p>
<p>“You don’t find it odd that you just washed gloves, sport?” Asked Jeffery.</p>
<p>Arthur stepped away. He reached into his back pocket for his Joy.</p>
<p>Jeffery stopped him before he could open the bottle, placing his hand firmly over the lid. The pair locked eyes. “I’m your whistleblower, Arthur. <em>Congratulations</em>, I thought you’d never figure it out.”</p>
<p>Arthur pulled free of Jeffery’s grasp, and in doing so the bottle of Joy flew from his hand. All the smiling faces scattering across the floor.</p>
<p>“I think you should leave ‘em, sport.” Arthur looked out over the floor and went to bend down. Jeffery grabbed his arm, pulling him up. “Save your dignity.”</p>
<p>Arthur stood up straight. Jeffery released his arm.</p>
<p>“You wanna know something, Jeffery,” Arthur started laughing, “that’s pretty fucking funny.”</p>
<p>“Which part?”</p>
<p>“<em>All </em>of it.”</p>
<p>Jeffery left amidst Arthur’s torrent of laughter.</p>
<p>Arthur stumbled to the sink. He could feel the tears as they ran down from his eyes and dripped out from behind his mask. Arthur gripped the sides of the sink. He began to pull. He put his foot to the wall and put his full weight into it. Arthur ripped the sink from the wall and smashed it on the ground. Water spurt up from the pipes, washing away all the Joy. Arthur picked a piece of the sink up off the floor and threw it against the mirror, riddling the bathroom with glass.</p>
<p>When Ridgewell entered the bathroom, he found Arthur standing in a puddle of water. Every mirror was broken. Chunks of ceramic lay mixed with the glass and Joy.</p>
<p>“You think this is funny, Harold,” said Arthur, “there’s no reason to pretend otherwise. <em>Behold my mania</em>.”</p>
<p>Ridgewell waded through the bathroom and wrapped a familiar arm around Arthur, leading him out, down the hall, toward the party.</p>
<p>“Arthur… Management needs this to happen a very certain way, you understand. Mr. Wulf, <em>needs</em> this to happen a very certain way. Everything’s in order. Once the party ends, Anton will drink a little too much champagne, and take a slip. He’ll crack his neck… or <em>something</em> to that effect. I no longer need you to do anything, Arthur. You don’t need to write up anything, sign anything, you can leave right now, if you want. Which reminds me,” Ridgewell stopped and bright himself around to face Arthur, “have you been taking your Joy?”</p>
<p>Arthur placed a hand on Ridgewell’s shoulder. “You should really learn to smile more.” Arthur pushed him aside and descended the stairs.</p>
<p>Anton was clinking his glass, gathering everyone near the fire place on the far right side of the apartment. As he began speaking, Arthur maneuvered through the crowd.</p>
<p>“Ladies and gentlemen, the first order of business tonight is to wish each and every one of you a truly merry Christmas. Second, is… <em>well</em>, it’s high time someone took stock of our place here. And if I may be so bold… I don't believe we belong in New York. I don't believe we belong in America at all, really. Joy shouldn't be here. It never should have left Wellington. But we bent our ear to <em>that </em>siren’s call… and in doing so leashed ourselves to a <em>God</em> that will never be satisfied by our meager offerings. Oasis is a cycle. One that we can never break from, now. Doomed to infinity. And with that, might I introduce the clown… <em>Mr. Monster</em>.”</p>
<p>Arthur stepped out to the front of the crowd. He felt the eyes of the room—from Jeffery in the corner, to Cassie and Ed several feet behind him, all the way to Ridgewell, who had just gotten down from the stairs— bear down on him. Arthur looked around at his props. There was a fire-poker, a butterknife, the glass in Anton’s hands. However, it was the axe mounted to the wall that drew Arthur’s gaze. The handle wasn't short enough to be a hatchet, but looked still light enough to throw.</p>
<p>“I was told once…” Arthur’s hand touched the handle of the axe, slowly gripping it “… in another life, perhaps, that life going on was merciful.” He took the axe down and held it. “But I know now that, that was a lie.” Arthur looked to Anton. “<em>Ruin</em> would be more forgiving.” The axe flew from his hand, embedding itself in Anton’s neck. Blood squirted out as the R&amp;D magnet collapsed to his side; drink falling from his hand and cracking on the floor.</p>
<p>Anton lay on the ground, bleeding. Everyone from Oasis watched, motionless.</p>
<p>“Gambler walks into a butcher shop,” attention slowly drifted back to Arthur, “says to the bloke behind the counter, ‘I got a hundred wagering you can't get the meat down from the top shelf without a ladder’. Bloke looks up, takes it in, turns back to the gambler and tells ‘em: ‘Can’t take that bet, sir… steaks are too high.’”</p>
<p>For a beat the crackle from the fireplace was the only sound in the room. Then Jeffery burst out laughing. Those from <em>Investor Relations </em>followed, then everyone that’d showed up from R&amp;D. <em>Sales, Quality Assurance</em>, Arthur even spotted a few from HR. The apartment plummeted into sheer hysteria.</p>
<p>When Arthur looked, Ridgewell was gone. He then joined the frenzy.</p>
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